Where's Waldo?
by TraSan
Summary: What secrets are hiding in the forested mountains of Oregon?  Truth can be elusive and one of the brothers doesn't have time to spare.  After Dean is injured, Sam must finish the hunt and get his brother out of the woods, before the hunt finishes them.
1. Chapter 1

**Where's Waldo?**

**Disclaimer: **Eye don't own Supernatural, nor dew eye profit from this inn any weigh, sew their! (Ouch, I hurt me).

**Thank You: **To Wysawyg for being the best beta a girl could hope for. Truly, thanks.

**Dedication: **To Heather03nmg for passing her nursing exams! Congratulations and happy graduation day on Monday!

…………………**SUPERNATURAL…………………**

The wind blew gently through the large, old-growth trees and above, the full moon shone brightly through the dense foliage. Dean hunkered down in the underbrush and scanned the area, keeping his rifle at the ready. He and Sam had followed the clues to the werewolves' whereabouts and they had ended here, in the middle of an ancient forest in the foothills of southern Oregon. They had passed through a small town, turned onto a country road for endless miles and then an old, gravel, abandoned forest road for ten more miles. They were truly in the middle of nowhere and Dean was certain the Impala was angry with him for the pot-holed trip she'd been forced to endure.

Despite the near ninety degree weather of the early June afternoon the temperature had steadily plummeted when the sun dipped below the horizon. Dean estimated it was no more than fifty degrees now and the temperature was still dropping. He ignored the slight chill that ran under his coat and up his spine. The werewolves were in the area and he needed to be on the alert.

Sam had circled around the northern direction and he was headed around to the south. They knew there were at least two werewolves in the pack, but there existed a possibility of one to four more. When he spotted the werewolf through the trees, Dean raised his rifle and fired.

The shot rang true and the large beast fell to the ground with a crashing thud. Dean warily approached the morphing werewolf. He was relatively sure he had mortally wounded the creature, but cautiousness was more than just prudent while hunting, it kept you alive. He looked down at the wolf that was quickly changing back into a dark-haired man, scratch that, boy. He was no older than eighteen. Dean instantly renewed his vigilance and surveyed the landscape. That left at least two remaining werewolves.

The smell of wet dog coupled with dead rabbit reached Dean's nose on the gentle breeze. He whipped the barrel of the rifle upwind. The forest was quiet save for the occasional rustling of leaves and the chirping of crickets. Dean picked up the distant sound of crashing underbrush and saw the dark shape of the second werewolf dashing between the trees. Without hesitation, he gave chase.

He followed it through the thick woods, but stopped at the edge of a clearing. The werewolf raised its snout in the air and sniffed. It snapped its head in Dean's direction, the light of the moon reflecting in the glowing eyes and then it took off running in the opposite direction.

Cursing under his breath, Dean pursued the lycanthrope at top speed, but still lost ground. He found himself on the other side of the clearing trying to catch sight of the elusive creature. Dingy fur and sharp teeth suddenly appeared directly in front of him, as the werewolf swung down from a low branch of the nearby tree. The claws of its hind-legs raked his chest when it kicked him backwards before dropping to the ground.

Dean fell, but managed to maintain his grip on the rifle when he hit a pile of wood debris and stones with a solid thud. He aimed his gun at the werewolf and his finger tightened on the trigger even as the werewolf snarled at Dean and sprang towards him. He fired.

"Son of a…" Dean swore as the recoil jostled sore muscles. He never saw if the bullet found its mark because the ground beneath him gave way in a rumble of tumbling stones and cracking wood. He fell in slow motion as rocks, debris and even himself bounced off and collided with each other and the sides of the hole. He fell as the moon moved further away in the sky and his body impacted with the ground below before the stars flicked out.

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Sam crouched next to the body of the dead werewolf taking in the appearance of the young woman before him as it changed back into a human being. His mind moved to Madison, but didn't linger there long. He needed to keep his thoughts focused on the hunt and verify Dean was successful before allowing himself the luxury of introspection.

The breeze that had been blowing gently all evening grew in intensity as the night wore on. It was a cold wind that ran down the collar of Sam's jacket and into his bones. He ignored the snap in the air, numbing his fingers and instead focused his concentration on the task at hand. The forest surrounding him was still and silent. Sam eyed the woods carefully looking for any indication of more werewolves or of his brother.

There was no movement in the area, no sound reaching his ears and Sam was aware of just how wrong that was. He moved stealthily through the trees, keeping the barrel of his rifle at the ready as he worked his way back towards Dean. The stars sparkled brightly in the cold sky and the moon shone through the patches of leaves in the trees. He could see well enough to walk without a flashlight so he chose to keep his turned off. There was no reason to give the werewolf more advantage than it already had.

Sam caught the silvery light of moonbeams bouncing off an object on the ground in the distance. He quickened his pace and the object on the ground became the white flesh of a dead, teenage boy. He crouched down next to the body and examined the bullet hole. It was a clean shot to the heart and Sam knew it was one of the werewolves. Dean had been here.

Wiping his hand on his pants, Sam stood up and looked around for signs of where Dean had gone from here, though he did not really expect to find anything. Dean could cover his tracks without even giving it a conscious thought. As Sam suspected the forest kept her secrets and the location of Dean remained a mystery. Sam knew the body on the pine-needle floor meant one more werewolf must still be in the area. He may not be able to track Dean, but he could track the other wolf.

The woods filled with the sounds of crickets chirping and the gentle rustle of leaves. It took Sam a moment to realize the world had gone from a black and white silent movie back to Technicolor surround sound. A change in the environment of that magnitude could only mean one thing, a predator of some type had moved out of the area. He knew he could not let his guard down because the werewolf could still be around, but the signs were not good. Dean would have moved out with the werewolf, so that left that much more ground to cover. Sam lifted his rifle to the ready position and headed out to look for the werewolf's trail.

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Dean felt hard pebbles under his back and digging into the back of his head. _Damn,_ that meant he hadn't made it back to a motel room. His head hummed at a frequency so high he figured every dog in the nearby vicinity would home in on him at any moment. Dean wondered briefly if they had gotten his money or if he had simply pissed them off and they had beaten him and left him here. It did not matter because either way, he needed to pick himself up and head back to the motel before Sam came looking for him. If his little brother knew he had managed to get the stuffing knocked out of him there'd be no end to the lectures or the mother hen routine.

The last time Dean had returned from a bar with a swollen lip and bloody knuckles Sam had discussed Dean's behavior and the likelihood it had contributed to his current appearance ad nauseam.

"_You've been out hustling pool without back up again, haven't you?" Sam asked when he opened the door._

"_We needed the money, Sam. You know we can't keep using the bogus cards with the Feds breathing down our necks right now," Dean replied, shouldering his way past Sam and into the motel room._

"_I would have gone with you," Sam said, walking to the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit._

"_I didn't want you to," Dean replied, flopping into a lumpy, upholstered chair._

"_What kind of bar did you go to?" Sam asked, his voice filtering in to Dean from the bathroom._

"_The kind that would have had me defending your honor instead of my cash," Dean answered with a smirk as Sam reappeared._

"_Nice, can you be serious for two minutes?" Sam snapped, pulling up a hard back chair in front of Dean. _

_He eyed Sam warily as he pulled out a gauze pad, doused it with liquid and pressed it to Dean's forehead. "Ouch!" he protested, pushing Sam's hand away. "I was being serious. What do you have in that thing?"_

"_It's just peroxide," Sam insisted pressing it to the cut again. "Stop being a baby. It won't work anyway. What bar?"_

"_It wasn't so much a bar as it was a kind of club," Dean admitted._

_Sam's eyes narrowed suspiciously and he sighed, "Dean, don't you think the job itself is dangerous enough?"_

_Dean didn't have a response that Sam would find reasonable, so he simply frowned at Sam and let him finish his ministrations and ranting. _

Dean was pulled from his memories by an increase in the intensity of the fizzy-popping noise in his head. He furrowed his brow in pain. White light flared behind his eyelids and he groaned as the buzzing and the light merged and expanded until it blocked out all thought and the darkness came once more.

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Sam followed the trail of the werewolf until it ended at the edge of a clearing. He passed through the clearing twice looking for signs of where the werewolf had re-entered the woods, but to no avail. The trail was cold. Sam wanted to call out for Dean, he had a feeling his brother was close by still hunting the werewolf, but he didn't want to risk giving away Dean's, or his own, location to the vicious lupine.

According to his watch there were only two more hours before dawn. Sam worried he would not be able to connect with Dean before daybreak and the only place Sam could be certain Dean would eventually turn up was the Impala. His decision made, he headed back to the waiting car on Waldo Road. Sam tried to keep his attention on the sights and sounds around him, but a portion of his brain could not help but dwell on his brother. Trouble had a way of finding Dean.

_Sam paced the confines of the motel room in tight lines. He had finished his homework hours ago; Dean and Dad should have been back already. He flicked on the television and flung himself into the motel's only chair. He jiggled his leg and tapped his thumb on the armrest, while attempting to distract himself with the mindless drivel on the set. Turning off the television and standing up, Sam threw the remote into the recently vacated chair and started pacing again in earnest. _

_He could not wait until he was eighteen like Dean so his dad and his brother would stop treating him like a child. He was not sure he was ready to hunt, but he was ready to stop being left behind. They had only left Austin a week ago and already his father had found a new hunt – a possible chupacabra sighting in New Mexico. _

_Sam started his third lap around the small room when the door burst open and his absent family members stumbled in, the younger supported by the elder._

"_Dean!" Sam exclaimed, moving to intercept with his brother._

"_Move out of the way, Sammy," John commanded, manhandling Dean to the bed. "Grab the first aid kit."_

"_Dad, what happened?" Sam asked, grabbing the kit and taking his place at Dean's side._

"_Wild dogs," John replied simply. "We almost didn't make it back to the car."_

_Sam watched as John cut away Dean's jeans from the cuff to his knee. Bite marks left streaks of red on Dean's leg. "It looks like Dean didn't," Sam replied. He had not meant to sound accusatory, but it came out that way even to his own ears._

"_He'll be fine," John said in a clipped tone. Turning his attention to Dean he asked, "Won't you son?" _

"_I'm okay, Sammy," Dean replied, directing his tight response to his anxious little brother. _

"_Sam, hand me the peroxide," John barked, holding out one hand for the peroxide while the other held a sterile gauze pad to Dean's leg._

"_What about diseases – like rabies?" Sam asked, the worry in his chest creeping out through his throat. "We don't have anything for stuff like that."_

"_One step at a time, Sammy," John replied. "One step at a time."_

Sam arrived at the Impala with the strange feeling of being unable to recall exactly how he had managed to get there. _Great Sam, way to pay attention, _he silently chided himself. He rested the rifle carefully along the side of the car and fished in his pocket for the lock pick set. Dean would be angry if he knew Sam was picking the lock, but then Dean should not have taken the keys with him as usual. The sound of a twig breaking behind him had Sam whirling around.

A flash of brown appeared in his vision, the only warning before a giant weight connected with his chest. The back of his head connected with the Impala and Sam felt an odd sense of relief at hitting the metal frame rather than the window. He did not want to be the one that told Dean the window was broken on the car – again.

One hand grabbed for the rifle while the other hand rose in a feeble attempt to stave off the next attack. The next hit came at him from the side and caused him to stumble to the right. He lost his footing on the rough gravel and fell to the ground. His fingers found the rifle butt on the way down and when his back hit the gravel, he rolled in one motion to a crouching position, braced the weapon with his shoulder and fired.

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When Dean awoke for the second time, he was able to crack his eyes open to peer into the darkness. Stars above his head told him he was outside. _Why was he outside? _Dean's head pounded and he moved his hand to the back of his head. It came away sticky and he groaned. The stars glittered and blurred and Dean wondered why they danced in erratic patterns and the ground shivered in response. He realized belatedly that it was he, who shivered and the even longer before he put together the clues to his probable concussion.

Images came unbidden of a hunt for the werewolves: Research at the rundown motel, leading them to the hunting grounds of the werewolf pack; he and Sam splitting up to search for the werewolves; chasing one through the trees and then - falling. Sam was still out there, hunting a pack of werewolves by himself and no doubt searching for him. "Sam!" Dean called out weakly without thinking. There was no response, but Dean was not expecting one. He knew Sam would not have left him bleeding at the bottom of a hole if he was nearby.

Unfortunately, that meant he had to find a way out of here. The fact that Sam had not found him when he had obviously been here long enough to bleed a fair puddle on the rocks beneath him had to mean something was wrong. Dean attempted to roll to his side and his back screamed in protest. Without warning the contents of his stomach made an unexpected and forceful exit out of his body. He retched several times and when he was done, he blew his nose to remove any vomit that had lodged in the alternate route. He lay there panting with his eyes scrunched closed trying to catch his breath, but his lungs refused to cooperate. The stabbing pain in his lower back that he had not noticed while lying supine joined in the chorus.

His breathing finally under control, Dean opened his eyes and surveyed his surroundings from his new perspective. Rocks littered the ground and he could see clearly that the hole he had fallen in was no more than six feet in diameter which explained why he had been lying in such an odd position earlier. Dean wanted to squirm away from the strong smelling sick puddle only inches from him, but he lacked the strength at the moment. The one thing Dean had not anticipated was the man sitting on the opposite side, his leg bent awkwardly beside him and his skin pale.

The man turned to look at Dean with glassy, unfocused eyes. "They put us here," he whispered. "They put us here, but they'll be back."

"Who?" Dean asked, shifting slightly. He regretted his actions as shoots of sharp pain moved up his legs, along his spine and into his head. "The werewolves?"

"Yeah, they put us here," the man repeated, turning away from Dean and leaning back against the wall.

Dean took in the man's odd appearance. The worn overalls and scuffed boots hinted at farming or ranching. "Have you seen anyone else?" Dean questioned him. He doubted this man had seen Sam, but he had to know for sure.

Dean thought at first that perhaps the man had not heard him or that he had passed out, but instead he seemed to be sleeping. "Hey, hey!" Dean called, hoping to wake him up. When he saw the man's eyes flutter open he continued, "My name's Dean, what's yours?"

"Not that it matters because we won't be making it out of here alive, but my name's Gibbs, William Gibbs," William replied, still not looking at Dean. His face contorted in pain and he moaned.

"We are going to make it out of here alive. Do you hear me?" Dean asked. His question was met with only silence and Dean could feel the tug of unconsciousness pulling at him once more. He blinked hard against the burn in his eyes and fought back another wave of nausea. "William, we are going to be okay. I have to get out of here and then we'll find my brother."

William turned sad eyes to Dean. "I'm sorry I have to be the one to tell you," he stated. "They got him."

"Got who? Sam?" Dean demanded. No way did this man know who Sam was.

Gibbs nodded slowly. "They hurt him. He was bleedin' and yellin' as they ripped him open." Gibbs leaned his head back and gave all appearances of sleep once more.

Dean's mind whirled. He couldn't know who Sam was. Dean had not described him or given any indication that would help the man link Sam to him. Although in truth, there could not be that many people wandering about in these woods. The longer Dean's muddled mind dwelt on that fact, the stronger his conviction that Gibbs actually did know who Sam was. "How, how do you know he was my brother?" Dean asked quietly and brokenly.

Gibbs did not open his eyes or turn his head towards Dean. "I wouldn't have at all, 'cept he was callin' for you."

Dean's heart sank into his stomach. He refused to believe Sam was dead. He was hurt, he needed Dean to climb out of this hole and help him, but he was not dead. Dean struggled to stand, but a lack of strength coupled with uncooperative limbs conspired against him. He flopped back onto the ground and fisted loose dirt in his hands. He tossed the dirt impotently across to the other side of the hole and braced himself against renewed flares of pain. Dean fought against the hopelessness threatening to consume him and the waves of panic clawing at his brain. His head swam with dizziness and this time he allowed himself to sink into blissful unconsciousness.

TBC

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AN: I recently flew to MN to visit my family and hit extremely hard turbulence flying over the mountains into Las Vegas. It was bumpy enough that my bottom lifted at least two inches off the seat, despite the seatbelt. I heard very clearly (and in their voices):

"Planes crash, Sam."

"And apparently clowns kill."

I chuckled softly to myself earning strange looks from my fellow passengers who no doubt thought I was going over the deep end. Ah well, what's a gal to do?

So…I figured I'd share my little story with a group of peeps most likely to understand. Aren't you the lucky ones? BG.


	2. Chapter 2

**Where's Waldo?**

**Disclaimer: **They belong to someone else. D'oh!

**Thank you: **In heaping helping amounts to Wysawyg – a very busy lady with her own stories brewing and yet she manages to find time to make my stories better with her suggestions. I played with it after she beta'd so as usual all mistakes are my own.

…………………………………………………….**SUPERNATURAL**……………………………………………………….

_Dean's mind whirled. He couldn't know who Sam was. Dean had not described him or given any indication that would help the man link Sam to him. Although in truth, there could not be that many people wandering about in these woods. The longer Dean's muddled mind dwelt on that fact, the stronger his conviction that Gibbs actually did know who Sam was. "How, how do you know he was my brother?" Dean asked quietly and brokenly. _

_Gibbs did not open his eyes or turn his head towards Dean. "I wouldn't have at all, 'cept he was callin' for you."_

_Dean's heart sank into his stomach. He refused to believe Sam was dead. He was hurt, he needed Dean to climb out of this hole and help him, but he was not dead. Dean struggled to stand, but a lack of strength coupled with uncooperative limbs conspired against him. He flopped back onto the ground and fisted loose dirt in his hands. He tossed the dirt impotently across to the other side of the hole and braced himself against renewed flares of pain. Dean fought against the hopelessness threatening to consume him and the waves of panic clawing at his brain. His head swam with dizziness and this time he allowed himself to sink into blissful unconsciousness._

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The third time Dean awoke diffused sunlight filtered through the leaves, down twenty feet to where he lay on his side at the bottom of the oubliette. He blinked sand-filled eyes and tried to focus on the area around him. The coarse rancher, Gibbs, was nowhere to be seen. _Had he simply imagined the old guy? _It was a wonderful, beautiful thought, but Dean knew it was not true. Gibbs had been here and he had told Dean what had happened to Sam. The question remained, where was Gibbs now? The obvious answer was not a pleasant one and Dean quickly tucked it away in favor of assessing his current predicament.

He eased himself onto his back and looked up at the faraway, slowly lightening sky. The sides of the deep hole were lined with protruding rocks and dry, exposed roots. Dean figured he could free climb using the natural hand and foot holds. It would be a stretch in some places, but it would be possible. He attempted to prop himself onto his elbows, ignoring the spasms in his back and the pounding in his head. His muscles quivered from the strain and he wondered how he was going to scale the dirt wall.

Tossing aside feelings of doubt, Dean strengthened his resolve to free himself and to find Sam. He used his feet and elbows to push himself along the bumpy ground until his back hit the wall. He groaned as he wriggled into a sitting position. Curiosity as to the time had Dean raising his arm to check his watch. He ignored the twinges in his shoulder and focused still blurry eyes on the digital display. It was either three minutes after eight or eight minutes after three, Dean could not tell which. He decided it was shortly after eight in the morning based on the amount of sunlight and lack of heat.

Wrapping trembling arms, weak from effort, around his knees Dean gathered his strength for the next round. His stomach gurgled in angry opposition of Dean's recent activity and his brain throbbed as if trying to escape the confines of his skull. "Come on, Winchester," he coached himself. "Get your rear in gear, you're okay." It was funny how his father's words came out of his own mouth when he least expected it.

Dean slowly peeled off his jacket, his breath hitching when his ribs burned hot. His breathing gradually returned to normal and Dean searched his coat pockets for anything that may be helpful once he reached the top. He pulled out a gas receipt, a book of matches and three, slightly linty peanut M & M's. He shoved the matches into his jeans pocket, dusted off the M & M's and popped them into his mouth. He was not hungry, in fact he was far from it, but he knew he should eat to help replenish what he had lost hours earlier.

He leaned back, allowing his head to gently rest against the dirt wall. From his new vantage point Dean craned his neck and looked up from the bottom of the hole. The top loomed impossibly far away and Dean closed his eyes, momentarily. Steeling himself for the long haul he staggered to his feet. Failure was simply not an option.

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Sam grunted under the exertion of pulling the large beast away from the car. He huffed from the effort as he hid the carcass of the cougar under the thick underbrush. He had not wanted to leave the cat near the Impala on the off-chance of a Forest Ranger driving by. The fact that he had managed to walk away from the attack with only bruised ribs and a large scratch down his left arm was something to be thankful for.

He pulled out the lock pick set and walked around to the back of the Impala. Within seconds had the trunk open and he began to carefully pack a small duffel with the essentials. Rope, axe, emergency blanket, power bars, water, lighter, accelerant and salt all made their way into the bag; after some thought Sam also stuffed extra silver bullets and a sharp knife in with the rest. He kept out the first aid kit to patch up the cut on his arm.

Slamming the trunk closed, Sam made his way to his traditional spot on the passenger side and crawled into the Impala to wait for Dean. He turned on the interior light and slipped out of his jacket and the long sleeve outer shirt. Examining his arm closely for the first time, Sam realized he actually had one very long, deep cut as well as three shallower cuts. The cougar had gotten in a full swipe. After cleaning the wound and suturing it closed with a multitude of steri-strips, Sam re-donned his shirt and jacket. He shook out two ibuprofens and swallowed them down with a huge swig of water.

Knowing there were at least two hours until daybreak, Sam leaned back in the seat to wait for Dean. If Dean was not back by then, he would begin searching again. Sam wrapped his coat tighter around him and tried desperately to get a little sleep. If Dean really was not okay, Sam needed the rest. Dean never got himself in just a little trouble. Sam's eyes grew heavy and he blinked lazily out the windshield.

_Sam hesitated at the side of the bed. On the one hand, he wanted reassurance that Dean was okay and on the other, he did not want to accidentally cause Dean any pain by bumping his injured legs. Their dad was already asleep on the other bed, so Sam's only choices were next to Dean or on the floor. He stood beside the bed, silently hovering, weighing his options when Dean groaned softly._

"_Just come to bed, Sammy," he sighed without rolling over to face Sam. _

"_Scoot over," Sam whispered, making shooing motions with his hands behind Dean's back. _

_Dean rolled half-way over and looked over his shoulder at Sam. "You know I sleep on this side. Climb over."_

"_Not tonight," Sam insisted, making no move to the far side of the bed._

_Dean glared, but it was half-hearted. The painkillers had dulled his reactions. "Sammy…"_

"_Not tonight," Sam reiterated. "Sometimes you need to let me be on the outside."_

"_Tonight's not that night," Dean stated, rolling back onto his side._

_Sam sighed and gingerly climbed over Dean to his customary spot between Dean and the wall. 'One of these days, Dean,' he thought. 'You're going to have to let me.' _

Sunbeams glinted merrily through the trees, hitting Sam directly in the eyes. He glanced at his watch and realized he had been able to snag a couple hours of rest. Dean had obviously not returned to the car, so Sam shoved the first aid kit into the duffel and headed out to find his brother.

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Dean's hand shook as he stretched to reach the next handhold. The sun was not yet shining into the confines of what he decided was an old well. Although there was not any direct sunlight beating down on him, it was already very warm and Dean wiped sweat off his forehead onto his shoulder. Rocks gave way under his foot and Dean hastily grabbed for the exposed root above him. His fingers grazed the dry tuber, but his foot slid further off its perch and Dean's damp hand could not maintain its grip.

Sliding down the side of the well, Dean frantically searched for any protruding object to latch onto. With a resounding thud he landed back on the ground, his ankle popping and a smaller thud as his bottom hit moments later. Dean wheezed; no breath to spare even for a curse. He panted shallowly and squinted as the sun crested over the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut and rested his head on bent knees in frustration.

He was not sure how long he stayed in that cramped position, but the sun beating on his head encouraged him to move. He eased himself up very slowly and stood carefully on the ankle he had turned. It was sore, but not broken. Things were looking up. Favoring his left ankle, Dean hobbled to the edge of the well. Winded from the short trip, Dean bent forward, resting his hands on his legs trying to catch his breath.

The sun continued to bake his head and back until he straightened. He looked closely at the wall-face in front of him. There were no longer any significant rocks in which to hoist him out of here. He had searched the other areas earlier and knew there was not any low enough to use. He slumped back down to the ground in defeat. "Sammy," he whispered.

Whether it was the heat or the concussion, Dean was losing the battle to stay awake yet again. He rested his head on his knees as it was more comfortable than bracing it against the hard wall. He felt the back of his head and discovered the large lump he was certain was the cause of the double vision, but he did not think it adequately explained the light-headed feeling that was continually worsening. It had to be the heat and the lack of water.

He fought against the pull of sleep because he needed to escape before nightfall. He was convinced the werewolves had returned for William before daybreak. Not to mention the ominous news from Farmer Gibbs that Sam had been hurt by the lycanthropes. He still clung stubbornly to the hope the man could not really know Sam and while he may have been calling to Dean it was in Sam's attempt to locate him, not because he was hurt. It appeared increasingly likely to Dean that he would not be able to free himself to help his brother and the loss of control over Sam's welfare had him wallowing in self-imposed, nearly debilitating guilt.

He blinked several times trying to stay awake, but in the end the heat and the head injury proved too much to overcome and he lost consciousness in the sun-baked bottom of the old well.

_Dean watched Sammy from a partially hidden spot on the perimeter of the park. He had followed Sammy when his brother had wandered away from the playground area apparently ignoring the rule that he needed to stay by Dean at all times. Sammy crouched in the grass, gazing intently at something. Dean assumed he had found an interesting bug of some type. Sammy had recently become enamored with insects of all kinds. _

_Sammy looked up and scanned the playground. Dean could tell by the expression on Sammy's face that he was looking for him. To Sammy's credit he did not appear scared or upset not to have Dean in his immediate sight, but with the increasing frequency of the glances Dean knew he was searching for him more urgently._

_He decided to end the game. Dean had only been trying to teach Sammy the importance of obeying dad and staying near him, but he did not want to scare him. "Hey, Sammy," Dean called stepping out into full view. "What do you have there?"_

_Sammy looked up, relief clearly evident on his face. "It's a praying mantis," Sammy replied with a smile, the gap from his two missing front teeth showing. "He's a hunter too."_

_Dean returned Sam's smile and bent down to look at the praying mantis. After a beat he cautioned, "You know, you were supposed to stay by me on the playground."_

"_I know," Sam replied ashamedly. "I'm sorry." He looked up at Dean, his hazel eyes conveying his sincerity. "I wasn't afraid though."_

"_It's not really about you being afraid. It is about you being safe," Dean lectured. He put an arm around Sammy's shoulders. _

"_I was safe," Sammy insisted. When Dean opened his mouth to contradict him, Sammy added, "I knew you were here watching me somewhere. You always are."_

_As much as Dean wanted to push his point, that Sammy needed to learn to obey the rules, the big brother part of him swelled in pride at his independence and his faith in Dean. "And I always will be." _

_Sammy laughed and wriggled out of Dean's embrace. He ran a few feet away and turned around to face his brother. "N'yah, n'yah, you can't catch me."_

_Dean rolled his eyes. His little brother never tired of this game and the reason eluded Dean. There had never been a time he had failed to catch Sammy. When Dean sprang to his feet and gave chase, Sammy squealed and almost tripped over his own feet taking off. "Dean!" Sammy screamed in the high-pitched delight only small children could muster. _

_Dean was almost on him when he shouted again, "Dean!" Dean frowned. The voice was still Sammy, but the deep voice was incongruous with the child in front of him._

"_Dean!"_

"Dean!"

Dean's eyes flicked open. Sam's normal alto voice had dropped an octave, the way it did when he was upset or concerned. "Sam?!" Dean croaked in a dusty voice. He licked his lips and tasted the salt from dried sweat. He swallowed hard, but he lacked saliva to soothe his raw throat. "Sam?!" he tried again. There was no response and Dean thought for a moment he had imagined his brother calling him.

"Dean, thank God," Sam's voice came from directly overhead.

Dean looked up and tried to focus his swimming vision on Sam, but he could not make the colors stay in the lines no matter how hard he concentrated. The blurry vision was making him nauseous and he closed his eyes. He would wait for Sam for he could do nothing else. At least he knew now, the bastard had lied to him.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Sam dropped the duffel next to a tree close to the pit. He snagged the canteen and slipped it over his shoulder. He then pulled out the length of rope and wrapped it around the tree. His sweat-dampened fingers slipped on the rope as he worked frantically to tie a tight reef knot. He hurried back to the edge of the deep hole uncoiling the rope as he went, concerned whether or not it would be long enough to reach Dean. He did not appear to be in any condition to climb out by himself.

He tossed the remaining coils into the well, taking care not to hit Dean. Sam lay on the ground, hung onto the rope and eased his legs over the edge. His fingers slipped as he struggled to control his rate of descent. Hands burning, he hit bottom with enough force to rattle his teeth.

Sam rushed over to Dean and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Dean?" he asked, gently shaking his shoulder. He could feel the heat radiating through Dean's shirt. Dean looked up at Sam, his head lolling to the side and Sam took in his appearance. His sunburned face was scarlet red and puffy, his lips were chapped and his pupils were unequal with a glassy finish. All in all, Dean looked a bit like a hotdog, left too long on the grill. Sam knelt down next to Dean. "Hey, big brother, let's get you out of here, okay?"

Awareness gleamed in Dean's eyes. "Sammy?" he asked, placing a hand over the one Sam had on his shoulder.

"Yeah, it's me," Sam replied, with a small smile.

Dean frowned. "You okay?"

Sam chuckled on the verge of hysterical relief. "I'm fine, Dean. You're the one who's hurt."

"M'fine. Gimme a minute," Dean slurred, struggling to stand.

"I could give you a hundred minutes," Sam stated bluntly. "And it wouldn't matter. You're hurt." Sam pushed down softly on Dean's shoulder encouraging him to remain seated. Dean scowled, but otherwise said nothing. Sam unscrewed the lid on the canteen, lifted it to Dean's lips and slowly tipped out the water. Dean drank in a sloppy, uncoordinated fashion, as if he had forgotten quite how to swallow. Sam lowered the canteen after giving Dean a few sips and screwed the lid back on. "That's it for now. I don't want to risk upsetting your stomach."

"Did that once already," Dean managed with a slight frown. "Didn't like it, hurt like a mother."

Sam threw Dean a concerned look. Dean admitting something hurt was tantamount to snow on the Gobi dunes. The dry, hot skin and the confusion were both indicative of heat exhaustion. He needed to get Dean out of this hole and into the shade quickly. "Do you think if I tied a makeshift harness you could hold the rope?"

Dean's scowl turned into a grimace. "Yes," he snapped, his frustrated retort made less potent by his swaying.

"Prove it," Sam challenged. He grabbed the end of the rope and held it in front of Dean. Dean made three attempts to latch onto it before Sam realized Dean was having vision problems. He helped Dean's fingers find the rope before he gave it a soft tug. He pulled it effortlessly out of Dean's grip. _Well that's never going to work, _he thought. Sam glanced around the dry well looking for a solution when he spotted Dean's discarded coat and an idea came to him.

It was nearly thirty minutes later before Sam had a strong, looped harness tied around Dean's backside and legs. He then fastened Dean's coat around Dean and the rope, diagonally over one shoulder and under the other in an odd type of sash. It was not a great solution, but it would keep Dean's upper body from dangling too far away from the rope and causing him to either smack into the wall or fall out of the harness.

"Dean?" Sam asked, trying to engage his brother in any meaningful way. Dean had been less responsive as time dragged on. Dean's eyes moved to Sam, but Sam could not honestly tell if Dean truly comprehended what he said. "I need to climb up the rope and that's going to jerk you around quite a bit." He hated the thought of causing Dean more pain, but he obviously could not trust Dean to secure himself in the harness after Sam climbed out.

Dean muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, 'bitch,' and Sam cast him a puzzled look.

Sam tapped Dean on the shoulder and said, "Okay, I'm headed up now." He waited for a minute for some sign from Dean that he understood, but received none. Sam took a firm hold of the rope and started the arduous process of climbing hand over hand out of the well. The burns on his hands and the cut on his arm throbbed in syncopated rhythm, but Sam ignored them, his eyes set only on the goal of reaching the top.

Forced to dig his hands into the rough ground to continue to maintain his hold on the rope, Sam had more difficulty managing the final four pulls, but he was finally out far enough to swing his legs over the edge and back onto solid ground. Spinning around to look down at Dean, Sam paused to catch his breath and flexed his rope-burned fingers in anticipation of pulling Dean to safety.

Slowly, inexorably, Sam began to pull Dean to the surface. His arm muscles sang and his bruised ribs ached from the effort and as a silent reminder of his own injuries. Once Dean was in reach, Sam grabbed his collar and hefted him onto solid ground. Dean's eyes were closed and his head flopped to the side. Sam grasped Dean under the arms and dragged him bodily across the uneven ground to the sun dappled shade of the nearest large tree. "And you talk about me needing to cut back," Sam muttered, panting from exertion.

He untied Dean's coat from around the rope, folded it neatly and placed it under Dean's head. Sam untied Dean's boots and slid one off. The other grabbed at Dean's heel and Sam bent down to examine it further. Dean's ankle was swollen. Sam winced in sympathy, as he firmly pulled on the boot until it released the captive foot. Socks came off next, followed closely by both of Dean's shirts. Sam succeeded in getting Dean to drink a few sips of water while he had him in a sitting position. He lowered Dean carefully back to the ground and untied the harness.

He coiled the rope as he reeled it in and finished by untying it from the tree before stuffing it back in the duffel bag. Sam raised his hand and stared at his enemy: the sun. He estimated they had approximately two hours left of daylight. That was a good thing because as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon it would start to cool off quickly. However, it was also a bad thing as Dean would not be able to negotiate the difficult terrain and they would be stuck out here another night. In fact, Sam doubted Dean would be leaving here under his own steam any time soon. That left only one option in Sam's mind. He would have to build a travois and drag Dean back to the Impala.

Turning his attention back to Dean, Sam knelt on the dry, wild grasses next to his brother. Dean's skin was still red and hot. He toyed with the idea of using water from the canteen to cool Dean, but until they were able to get back to town this was all the water they had and it needed to be reserved for drinking. He examined Dean's chest and arms, but other than scratches and minor bruising he did not see any significant injuries. He bent Dean's left knee, placed a hand on his shoulder, rolled Dean towards him and shifted him into the recovery position.

He sat back on his haunches at the sight of Dean's back. Angry red blotches littered his back, his hair was crusted with dried blood and a large, spongy, purple bruise covered nearly his entire lower back. Using the peroxide from the medkit, Sam cleaned the wound on Dean's head. It was not terribly deep, but it was long and the bump on his head looked as if a golf ball lay housed just below the surface of his skin. Throughout his ministrations Dean did not move nor utter a sound. He began speaking to Dean in the hopes of eliciting a response.

"You managed to bang yourself up pretty well, Dean," Sam stated, cleaning one of the deeper scratches on his back. "But you seem to be losing your touch. I don't think that ankle is broken." Dean still did not move or emit a noise.

Sam squinted in the fading light at the ankle in question. "Although, who knows? You are getting older and I'm sure your bones are more fragile. I'm just glad you didn't break a hip," Sam quipped, using tweezers to remove small rocks from an abrasion on Dean's elbow. "And I see you've taken up rock collecting." Nothing, no response.

"I'm getting a little worried, Dean," Sam admitted, putting away the supplies in favor of securing the impromptu campsite. "I wish you'd wake up and say something."

"Don't be scared, Sammy," Dean mumbled, his words barely intelligible. "Dad'll be back soon."

"Dean?"

Dean's eyes opened to half mast and Dean winced. "Sam? Head hurts."

"You've got a big knot on the back of it, that's why," Sam replied, a smile cracking his face.

Dean looked at him hazily. "Where are we?"

"We're still in the woods and there's still one more werewolf out there," Sam replied honestly. "Hey, it's going to be dark soon. I need to gather some wood and build a fire. It won't deter a werewolf, but it might keep the animals away."

Dean blinked at Sam as if trying to figure out something important. "Hand me a gun," he stated finally.

"What?" Sam asked incredulously. "Dean, you can't use a weapon right now."

"Can too," Dean replied petulantly, still struggling to keep open his heavily-lidded eyes.

"Can not," Sam stated with a tone of finality. He held up two fingers only a foot from Dean's face. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

The heavy pause was broken by Dean's huff of annoyance. "Fine. No gun."

Amazed he had won that round, Sam stood up. "I'll stay in sight. Don't try to do anything."

Dean waved a hand at him and closed his eyes. Before Sam had picked up his first stick of wood, he heard light snoring. It took only minutes to find plenty of kindling for a fire, but the next problem was the dry grass. He could not start a fire in the open or it would burn the whole forest down. He deposited his pile of wood neatly on the ground, picked up a nearby rock and dug into the ground. It took nearly a half an hour to dig a hole wide enough and deep enough to contain a fire. He decided to line the circle with rocks for added protection.

A cool breeze blew through the trees as the sun kissed the horizon. He would only have enough light left to quickly gather a few rocks and get the fire started. Burdened with an armful of rocks, Sam kicked over one last stone for the fire pit and startled when the distinctive rattle of an angry snake reached his ears.

TBC

………..…………………………………………….**Supernatural**…………………………………………………………….

AN: This chapter was in danger of another day's delay (sorry it is late) because even after donating blood this morning, I decided to walk up Table Rock (1.5 miles up; 3 round-trip) after work during the heat of the day. I arrived home, exhausted, sweating and with enough salt around my lips to dip a margarita glass into. Rather than shower, I sat in my dining room, stinking up my house, typing away. Ew, it's time to rectify that situation before crawling into bed. The best part was, as I walked up the rock I thought, 'Hey, this is good research…walking around in the heat (95 today) with a little less blood. Now you know a bit about how it might feel.'

I think crazy is the word you are searching for. (c:

As always – Feedback Welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Where's Waldo?**

**Disclaimer: **I wished on a star and carried moonbeams home in a jar, but Sam and Dean still belong to Kripke and the CW.

**Beta'd: **By the delightfully witty Wysawyg, who in no way suffers from SHDS. BG. A big thank you, for patiently reminding me to put action before reaction and the wonderful suggestions! I played after she read so all mistakes are my own.

Thank you to Charlie Girl 79 for giving it a quick once over.

………….………………………………..……………**Chapter 3**...

_Dean waved a hand at him and closed his eyes. Before Sam had picked up his first stick of wood, he heard light snoring. It took only minutes to find plenty of kindling for a fire, but the next problem was the dry grass. He could not start a fire in the open or it would burn the whole forest down. He deposited his pile of wood neatly on the ground, picked up a nearby rock and dug into the ground. It took nearly a half an hour to dig a hole wide enough and deep enough to contain a fire. He decided to line the circle with rocks for added protection._

_A cool breeze blew through the trees as the sun kissed the horizon. He would only have enough light left to quickly gather a few rocks and get the fire started. Burdened with an armful of rocks, Sam kicked over one last stone for the fire pit and startled when the distinctive rattle of an angry snake reached his ears._

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam stood completely still as his eyes searched the long shadows for the snake. Finally, he saw it coiled near the overturned stone, its rattling tail held high. He weighed his options. Knowing it could only strike half its body length, his distance from the reptile was nearly enough to be safe. He could attempt to simply back away slowly and hope it would not attack. Sam edged his way backwards, but his retreat was impeded by the armful of rocks and he moved clumsily, shifting his arms to maintain a grip on the stones. A chunk of granite broke free from the group and hit the ground in a puff of dust and a dull thud.

The viper uncoiled and struck with reptilian speed causing Sam to jump and two more rocks to dislodge from the pile and fall to the ground. Apparently tired of the harassment from above, the snake slithered quickly into the long grass and Sam swore under his breath. The rattlesnake's fangs had sunk into his leg even through the denim. Not wanting to have to pick up all the stones again, Sam decided to carry them back to camp before checking the bite. The cut on his arm burned and his muscles vibrated as he began carefully walking back to Dean, keeping a close lookout for more snakes. They would be on the move now that the night had cooled and Sam did not relish the thought of another encounter.

He deposited the rocks inside the fire-pit. They clinked off each other as they hit and the sound caused Dean to sit bolt upright with a small gasp. He sat blinking, as his mind whirred to catch up to his body. Sam wiped his hands off on his jeans and walked over to his brother. "Dean?" Sam asked. He stooped low and brushed small pieces of dry ground debris, dirt and stray ants off Dean's already abused back.

Dean grabbed Sam's other arm, his grip almost painful in its urgency. "You're okay?"

Sam frowned. Dean seemed to be fixated more than usual on his safety and also seemed to have trouble recalling recent events. He hoped it was not the head injury. "Yeah, I'm fine, remember? You fell into an old, dried up well?" There was no reason to bring up the snake bite. Not until he knew for sure how bad it was. Adult rattlesnakes could control their venom release and there was a chance it was a dry bite, especially because he was not experiencing any symptoms yet.

Dean's mint melt-away eyes searched Sam's face to verify the truthfulness of his statement. His expression expressed his disbelief that Sam was telling the entire truth, but he did not openly question it. "So, Lassie came and rescued me from the well?" Dean quipped.

"I think Lassie knocked you into the well," Sam replied with a slowly widening smile, he had seen the cuts on Dean's chest and put together a reasonable scenario. Dean still held a death grip on his arm, but if he was reverting to form, Dean was feeling a little better. The hold on his forearm actually increased in intensity and Sam resisted the urge to wince. If he called Dean's attention to it, Dean would be embarrassed and shut down. He hoped Dean realized it soon as his fingers were actually tingling.

"Did I get it?" Dean asked, abruptly releasing his hold on Sam's arm.

"You did get one, but I don't think you got that one. I didn't see a body anywhere nearby," Sam stated. He shifted towards the fire pit, but did not turn away from Dean. "I'm going to start a fire."

Dean reached for him again, but seemed to change his mind. He dropped his hand and lowered his gaze. "I wasn't in that hole alone," Dean recalled.

"I didn't see anyone else," Sam replied. The look on Dean's face was enough to convince Sam that Dean believed what he said, but Sam had not found any indication of anyone else in the well. He scooted closer to the fire-pit and started lining it with rocks to give Dean some physical space.

"There was a rancher and his name was William…Gibbs I think," Dean replied.

"Dean, no one else was down there," Sam insisted.

"No, I mean I know, when I woke up this morning he was gone," Dean explained.

"Maybe he got out and went for help?" Sam suggested, looking over his shoulder at Dean.

"I don't think he could," Dean replied, shaking his head. "It looked like his leg was broken."

"Are you suggesting the werewolf came back for him?" Sam asked, stacking the rocks around the dirt hole. It felt like he had more than enough rocks while he had been carrying them, but in truth there were barely enough to circle the fire-pit.

"I don't know what I'm suggesting," Dean admitted, holding his head in his hands and rubbing his temples.

Sam stood up, walked over to the duffel bag and came back to sit next to Dean. He offered the opened canteen to Dean. "You need to drink some water," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He shoved two ibuprofens in Dean's hand. "Take these too."

Dean swallowed the pills carefully and drank the water slowly. When he finished, he sat with the canteen in his lap, but did not make an effort to screw back on the lid. Finally, Sam realized Dean was still having trouble with his vision and couldn't close the canteen. "Hey, if you're finished with that, I'll take a drink," Sam said, holding out his hand.

Dean handed him the canteen, but Sam could tell he was still focused on something else. He took a small swig of water and set the canteen next to Dean. Deciding Dean needed some time before he would talk again; Sam started filling the pit with wood and dry grass. Within moments a small fire crackled brightly making shadows dance around them. He surreptitiously pulled up his pant leg and examined the snake bite. It was not swelling and only throbbed a little. It looked as if he was lucky this time. The law of averages dictated it had to happen eventually.

Sam walked over and reached into the duffel bag once more and this time came out with the emergency blanket. He spread it out next to Dean. "Why don't you move over here?" Sam asked. "Maybe the bugs will leave you alone." There were numerous crawling insects on the ground and several had found their way to the brothers already. Dean did not reply, but he did scoot over until he was on the blanket. "Do you think you could eat something now?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean replied.

Sam was not at all sure Dean could eat. He appeared nauseated, as if he was concentrating a great deal on not to throwing up the water he had just consumed. He pulled a power bar out of the duffel and the wrapper crinkled as he opened it. He broke it in half and handed one half to Dean. "Go slow," Sam cautioned.

Dean took a bite and chewed carefully before swallowing. "Tonight is the last night to catch that werewolf this lunar cycle," he said. "We need to be out there hunting it."

"Dean, you're hurt," Sam reminded him needlessly. "We can't hunt tonight."

"Sam, we can't let it get away. We need to finish this," Dean insisted.

Sam could tell he was not going to get anywhere with declarations, so he switched tracks. "Okay, what do you suggest?" he asked.

"We track it, the same as before," Dean replied.

"Your ankle is twice its normal size. You can't walk around in the wood searching for it," Sam noted. He shoved the empty wrapper into his jeans pocket and continued, "Before you suggest it, I'm not leaving you here alone while I search for it either. You can't defend yourself if you can't see well enough to fire a weapon and quite frankly, you've been disoriented every time you wake up. If I leave to hunt, are you going to remember that I'm out hunting when you wake up?"

Dean's face crinkled in disapproval. "We can't leave it out there," he repeated. "It will start a new pack and more people will be hurt."

Sam sighed in frustration. Commands had not worked and the voice of reason had failed too. That left only compromise or appealing to Dean's protective big brother side. He toyed briefly with playing up the legitimate snake bite angle, but that could backfire on him quickly. Compromise it was. "How about we wait until midnight? That's only a couple of hours from now," Sam suggested.

"You're saying we should do nothing?" Dean asked incredulously.

"I'm only suggesting we rest for a couple of hours and then if we're both up to it, we take it from there," Sam replied.

"Sam, we finish the hunt. No exceptions," Dean announced firmly.

"There are plenty of exceptions," Sam disagreed. He understood Dean's motivation to finish every hunt and to not leave any opportunity for evil to escape. The shtriga had been a life-altering event for his brother. He could not help but think, however, if he was the one who was injured that Dean would not leave him here alone while he finished the hunt. "It's just the rules are arbitrary and stacked in favor of the house."

Dean's glare turned to an expression of relief. Sam twisted to gaze in the direction Dean was looking. Nestled into the grove of trees on the far side of the clearing was a two story house. Two young children, no older than five, were standing at the large picture window upstairs. "How'd I miss an entire house?" Sam muttered. He had been solely concentrating on Dean until he started hunting for firewood and by then the sun had been almost gone. Still, a house was a hard thing to miss. "I missed a house?" Sam asked sheepishly.

Dean awarded him a lop-sided grin. "Guess you're slipping, little brother," he teased.

Sam turned back to the house and realized at once that something was wrong. The children were pounding on the window now and both of them appeared to be afraid. "Dean, something's wrong," he observed.

Dean's grin faded away and he moved to stand, but he was beaten by Sam. The weapon he had wanted, but been denied earlier, was thrust into his hand. "Stay here," Sam commanded as he took off running for the house.

"That's not gonna happen," Dean muttered. He then realized he had another problem to solve to solve first. "Where the hell are my shoes?" he wondered aloud.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Sam ran as fast as he could for the house. He could now see through the window where flames were licking the walls and the ceiling in the children's room. The acrid smell of smoke filled Sam's nose, spurning him into high gear. Soon, the entire house was in flames. The window upstairs smashed and the sound of children crying could be heard over the roar of the fire. The children's tear-streaked faces turned to absolute terror when the fire burned ever higher and the little girl's dress started to burn.

The entire house was in flames and there was no way Sam was going to reach them in time. The thought of two more people burning alive before his very eyes was intolerable and panic fluttered in his chest. He reached for the doorknob and a pocket of hot air pushed him down onto his backside when the fire flared. The heat of the flames caressed his face and he raised his arms to shield his eyes. Silence and then the sound of crickets filled the air, replacing the roar of the fire.

Sam propped himself up on his elbows and blinked into the dark woods, his eyes readjusting to the darkness after the bright flames. The house was gone. There were three young trees standing where the house had been and there was not a sign of the house or the fire anywhere.

"Sam?!" Dean called from behind him, but not far enough behind him. Dean obviously had not listened to him.

Sam jumped to his feet, whirled around and headed back for Dean. Dean had not made it far. He had his boots on and one was tied, the other held fast by the swollen ankle. "I thought I told you to stay there," Sam snapped. Dean's pig-headed insistence was going to get him hurt. Well, even more hurt.

"You say a lot of things. It's kind of hard to keep track," Dean replied with a grimace of pain as his ribs screamed in agony. Apparently, lying absolutely still was the only thing he was capable of at the moment. "What happened?"

Sam grabbed Dean's elbow and steered him the ten feet back to camp. "The house disappeared," Sam explained. "It didn't burn down, it disappeared. There's no sign of a fire and there are trees growing where the house was standing."

"How is that possible?" Dean asked, shaking his head. The sunburn on his arms and face caused the nerve endings in his skin to sing loudly as skin stretched tight. Even the cool breeze that chased the leaves in the trees felt like tiny pin-pricks on the sensitive skin.

"I don't know," Sam replied honestly. He did not meet Dean's gaze. He did not want to know what he would find there. "But that was a real fire. I could smell it and hear it as well as see it. There really was a house burning over there."

"We'll figure it out," Dean reassured him.

Sam caught the weary tone and took a good look at Dean. It was plainly evident Dean was in a great deal of pain. He was holding himself carefully and every movement was stiff and forced. Exhaustion oozed out of every pore and he was swaying slightly. "You need to sit down," Sam insisted, gently helping an unresisting Dean to the blanket. "Why don't you catch a couple hours of rest? I'll watch for the werewolf and try to figure out what just happened."

"Wake me if anything happens," Dean replied with a stifled yawn. He eased himself back to the ground, ignoring the pain in his back. "I mean it."

"I will," Sam agreed. "Or in two hours whichever is sooner."

Dean closed his eyes and fell asleep immediately. Sam stared into the small campfire and racked his brain to figure out what could have happened on the far side of the clearing. He realized he had dozed off when something woke him. The fire did not appear to have burned down at all from when he last looked so he could not have been out long. He peered into the dark forest and strained his ears searching for what pulled him back to awareness.

The distant sound of yelling echoed off the trees and Sam turned his head back and forth trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. "Dean," he whispered. Dean did not respond, but Sam did not want to shake him. He knew Dean's back and head must be hurting and he did not want to add to it. "Dean," he said in a hushed but urgent whisper. He tapped Dean lightly on the shoulder and Dean's eyes snapped open and focused on Sam.

"What?" he asked, his emerald green eyes sparking to awareness. Sam was pleased to see Dean did not appear confused, but it was apparent he was not moving any more than he had to.

"Listen," Sam replied. The two men sat listening to an owl hoot, crickets chirp and an occasional bat screech for nearly five minutes.

"What am I supposed to be hearing?" Dean asked finally, propping himself up on one elbow. His face looked pinched and Sam instantly regretted waking his brother for nothing.

"I thought I heard yelling," Sam answered abashed. He glanced at his watch. Dean had only been sleeping for an hour. "Why don't you drink some water?" Sam suggested. He reached for the canteen and opened it before handing it to Dean.

"How long?" Dean asked succinctly before raising the canteen to his lips. He took several swallows before handing it back to Sam.

"An hour, sorry," Sam apologized. "Same deal?" he offered.

Dean nodded, lay back and closed his eyes. The sound of yelling started again almost immediately, Dean's eyes popped back open and he supported himself on his elbows. He glanced over at Sam who nodded in affirmation. The sound seemed to be getting closer and Dean struggled to understand what was being said. "Can you understand what they are saying?" he asked reluctantly, not wanting to admit he was not comprehending the words to Sam.

"No," Sam replied in a hushed voice. "I think it's Chinese."

"Thank God," Dean sighed with exaggerated relief. He caught the raised eyebrow and look of disbelief from Sam. "Well, thank someone anyway," he amended.

The voice grew louder and more urgent. It was closer now and it was definitely speaking in Chinese. Sam handed Dean the gun and grabbed his rifle from its place beside the duffel bag. "Stay here, this time," he whispered harshly as he stood up and slowly moved towards the sound.

Dean's emotions flared in angry annoyance. He was not going to lie around while something or someone put his little brother in danger. He levered himself to his feet and tried to gain his bearings. Sam was already nearing the first line of trees when a figure emerged from the woods between him and Sam. "Sam!" Dean called out in warning.

Sam spun around quickly, but so did the intruder. The man was Asian and he was carrying two daggers. The long handles sported dragon heads that poked out from behind the man's palms. Dean raised the gun with a shaking arm. He did not remember it being so heavy before. "Stop," Dean commanded, his voice stronger than his body at the moment.

The man did not stop. He did not even hesitate, but instead came at Dean waving the daggers wickedly. Dean solidified his shooting stance and shouted, "I said, stop!" The dark and his still somewhat blurry vision were making it difficult to aim the gun properly, but Dean figured his lousy shot would still be better than most others. The man did not appear to be fazed by Dean or the gun, but continued to yell and stab into the air with the daggers.

When Sam moved in behind the smaller man, he whirled around to face Sam. The daggers swiped dangerously close to Sam, but he easily warded off the shorter man. "Hey!" Dean shouted trying to distract the man from his brother. The man did not pay attention to Dean, but continued to focus on Sam.

The man's shouting and fighting seemed to be gaining in volume and momentum. Desperate to draw his attention away from Sam, Dean turned his gun outwards, butt first and hit the man on the back of the head with as much strength as he could muster.

"Damn it, Dean!" Sam shouted at him. Not that it mattered, for the man was not fazed in any way. The man continued shouting and the next time he raised one of the daggers, he landed a glancing blow across Sam's shoulder.

Dean raised his gun. He was not going to stand by and watch this man kill Sam. The man turned again so that he was facing the woods, Sam and Dean on either side of him. With a look of wide-eyed shock, the man staggered backwards, holding his stomach with both hands. He fell to the ground and disappeared. Sam and Dean exchanged looks of confusion.

"Sam, what the hell is going on here?" Dean asked.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Moonlight shone between the trees and glittered off the seven circles of stones layered around and through the grove of trees. At the center of the smallest circle, the concrete monument spoke of a past life and at the four corners the four statues sparkled in reply. Silvery, vapor wisps filtered up through the pine-needle covered floor and began to solidify. The distant howl of a lone wolf filled the air.

………………………………………………….………..**Supernatural**……………………………………………………….

AN: When we were at Winchester Bay for our son's birthday we stopped at the Snickersnee Shoppe and a Chinese double dragon dagger caught my eye. The owner of the shop explained it was over two hundred and fifty years old and that for the Chinese at the time it was the protective weapon of choice, similar to a miner having a rifle over his door. He let me draw the daggers and hold them for a minute. You can practically feel history in your hands when you hold antique items like that and I knew right then, they'd be making an appearance in a story somehow.

As always – Feedback Welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

**Where's Waldo?**

**Disclaimer: **Not all that glitters is gold and not a single thing related to the Winchesters belongs to me. Poo.

**Beta'd: **Charlie Girl gave it a quick once over for me and Heather forced me to push past some of my limitations. (c: All mistakes are my own.

**Oops!: **My apologies to any one of perhaps twenty people who read the first version of chapter 4 I posted. I added more substance to one particular scene (see comment above about pushy Heather) and when I copy/pasted it in, I left in two, too many paragraphs resulting in a strange zig-zagging scene (thanks to the same Heather for alerting me to the mistake). Further proof in the pudding that Wysawyg is worth her weight in gold! She's been very busy as of late and I let her off the hook on this one. Oy vey. Next time, the posting will just have to be wait. BG.

…………………………………………………………**Chapter 4**………………………………………………………………

_Dean raised his gun. He was not going to stand by and watch this man kill Sam. The man turned again so that he was facing the woods, Sam and Dean on either side of him. With a look of wide-eyed shock, the man staggered backwards, holding his stomach with both hands. He fell to the ground and disappeared. Sam and Dean exchanged looks of confusion. _

"_Sam, what the hell is going on here?" Dean asked._

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_Moonlight shone between the trees and glittered off the seven circles of stones layered around and through the grove of trees. At the center of the smallest circle, the concrete monument spoke of a past life and at the four corners the four statues sparkled in reply. Silvery, vapor wisps filtered up through the pine-needle covered floor and began to solidify. The distant howl of a lone wolf filled the air._

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Sam glanced over at Dean to verify that he was still sleeping. He used this opportunity to check the snake bite again now that he had a little more time. He pulled up his jeans and examined his crusty sock. The blood had dried it fast to his leg and he peeled it slowly off the wound. He cleaned and dressed it quickly, looking at Dean every so often to ensure he would not get caught. He was going to have enough trouble getting Dean to rest and take it slow without him knowing about this. Sam neatly re-packed the first aid kit and moved to Dean when he stirred restlessly.

He felt Dean's forehead and frowned at the warm temperature. Dean moaned softly in his sleep, but showed no outward signs of waking. Sam reached for his rifle and placed it beside him. He rested his hand on the weapon, keeping it ready in case the werewolf appeared. Despite what Dean thought, it was time for him to let Sam look out for him once in awhile and Sam knew he was not just thinking about their current predicament. He immediately pushed those crippling thoughts aside. Right now his primary concern had to be getting Dean out of here.

In a few minutes it would be the end of the two hour deadline he and Dean had agreed upon. Whatever had been going on had stopped at midnight and had not happened again. Sam could not be certain what exactly had transpired, but he was certain it did not have anything to do with the remaining werewolf. Sam considered letting Dean sleep, but he knew that Dean would be righteously angry at what he considered to be Sam's coddling. Dean also had a point and the werewolf needed to be stopped tonight. Sam just wasn't quite sure how to accomplish that feat without aggravating Dean's injuries.

Dean moaned again and Sam decided now was as good a time as any to wake him. "Dean," Sam said, giving Dean's shoulder a light shake. "Hey, wake up."

"G'way, Sammy," Dean mumbled, blindly slapping at Sam's hand. "Tired."

"Dean, it's been two hours," Sam insisted. "Wake up and look at me."

Dean opened his eyes and turned to glare at Sam. The urge to vomit hit strong and he barely had enough time to wave Sam to the side before retching acidic bile in a long yellow line. The heaving wracked his ribs and his back burned hot. His lower back throbbed insistently and the rhythm was matched by the beat in his head. Sam's concerned hazel eyes swam into focus and Dean tried to talk, but his tongue felt thick and the words came out garbled. "Time izzit?" he asked.

Sam looked at him as if he had grown three heads. "I didn't catch that," Sam admitted. "Why don't you have a drink of water and try again?"

Dean noticed Sam undid the cap for him and did not release his hold on the canteen even after Dean wrapped his fingers around it. His arms shook when he lifted the canteen and he knew the only reason he managed to get any water into his mouth was due to Sam's guiding hand. He swallowed several gulps of water and tried again. "What time is it?"

"A little after one," Sam replied, still giving him the puppy dog eyes.

"Sam, I'm fine," Dean stated. He sat up slowly to give his back time to get used to the idea and braced himself for another bout of vomiting when nausea flared. Breathing deeply he fought back the urge to heave and caught the look on Sam's face. "I'm not going to break," he said with what he hoped was a reassuring grin. Sam did not smile.

"Dean, I think you're right and we should hunt for the werewolf…" Sam started, his face serious.

"I always knew you were a smart boy," Dean joked. He could hear the tiredness in his voice despite the fact he'd been aiming for the right blend of sarcasm and sincerity.

"On the way to the car," Sam finished. Sam crossed his arms, looking more like a stern librarian than his twenty-four-year-old brother.

"Whatever, Sammy," Dean replied, making a valiant effort at achieving a vertical position before falling back to his bottom.

"Why don't you wait for me to pack up the duffel first?" Sam suggested.

"Because I have to piss," Dean forced out through tight lips. He took a small amount of amusement at the red creeping up Sam's face.

Sam stood, grasped Dean under his shoulder and helped him to his feet. "Do you, uh, do you need help?" he asked, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam and shook his head. "Not unless your name is Lindsay Lohan."

Sam smiled in relief. "Be careful," he cautioned.

"I'm always careful," Dean quipped, waving a hand at Sam as he started slowly, limping for the tree line.

"It's funny how trouble seems to find you so often," Sam muttered under his breath.

Dean stopped at the edge of the clearing and aimed for the underbrush. He was surprised he had to go at all considering he had not had much to drink in a day and had thrown up twice. The pain that followed shocked him and he held on to the nearby tree for support as he finished. Dean zipped up his pants and decided to keep this one a secret. Sam did not have to know everything.

He stood against the tree, catching his breath for a couple of minutes before turning to head back to Sam. Though it was dark, he thought he could see two men striding towards each other in the area behind Sam. "Sam!" He shouted hoarsely. "Look out!"

Sam looked up at Dean and then over his shoulder at the two men. Both men drew pistols and fired at each other. The man wearing the long overcoat was apparently the one slower on the draw and he clutched at his chest before collapsing to his knees and finally to the ground. The other man, sporting a wide-brimmed hat approached the first man cautiously, his pistol still smoking. Abruptly, he looked up at Sam and shouted, "You!" And as the first man winked out of existence, the second man's head snapped back. He fell backwards with unseeing, wide eyes and disappeared before he hit the ground.

Dean was panting by the time he made it back to Sam. His ankle had felt stiff and sore before he jogged in an odd, uneven gait the twenty feet to his brother. Now it seemed to have a heartbeat of its own as he stood with his weight mostly on the right foot to protect the swollen appendage. "Sam? Are you okay?" he wheezed.

Sam turned around, apparently surprised to see Dean standing there. "Dean, take it easy, I'm fine."

"What happened?" Dean asked, still puffing. He bent over and placed his hands on his knees to steady himself.

"I'm still not sure," Sam replied. "But they seem solid enough. I could feel the heat from the fire in that house and the dagger that swiped my shoulder left a cut."

"It did?" Dean asked, genuinely surprised. He straightened and tried to get a look at Sam's shoulder.

Sam brushed his hand away. "It's okay," Sam stated and started to turn to pick up the duffel.

Dean grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him upright, ignoring the protest of his ribs and lower back. "Let me look," he insisted.

"Dean," Sam said, but it sounded more like an annoyed sigh. "I am fine. You're the one who took a trip down the rabbit hole. I should be getting another look at your back and head before we leave, especially since you threw up again."

Dean saw the determined look in Sam's eyes and opted for compromise before he lost all ground. "If I can look at your shoulder first," he responded.

Sam rolled his eyes, but offered no further argument. He pulled back the collar of his shirt and let Dean peer at the cut in the dim light. Dean blinked several times and when the cut did not come into focus, he realized his vision was still blurry, at least when he tried to focus on details close up. "See?" Sam retorted, pulling his shirt back into place.

Dean did not see, but he was not going to admit that. Sam was hovering enough as it was. A young woman in a bed materialized over Sam's shoulder. "Sam, look," Dean said, pointing to the woman. She could not be more than twenty to twenty-two years old and she was obviously in the throws of labor.

Sam turned to face the woman, who screamed in agony. He stood watching for only a moment before stooping to pick up the duffel and grasping Dean by the elbow. "Let's get out of here," Sam whispered. "We can't do anything for her."

Dean nodded and allowed Sam to pull him along towards the grove of trees where the burning house had stood earlier this evening. They were almost to the woods when Dean felt something heavy hit his back and despite Sam's tight grip on his arm, he fell to his knees. "Son of bitch," he moaned. He felt Sam's hand leave his arm and he knew instinctively that his little brother was throwing himself in the line of fire. He rolled off his hands and knees and onto his back to look in the direction Sam had gone.

Sam was standing not more than five feet from him between Dean and a wild looking mountain man. "Git off my property!" the mountain man yelled. "Git!" He yelled again, raising a rifle – a Winchester rifle. Dean shook his head at the irony. He staggered to his feet and shuffled awkwardly towards Sam.

"Stay back," Sam hissed at him, apparently suddenly endowed with either superhuman hearing or eyes in the back of his head.

"Not going to happen," Dean shot back weakly.

"Git off my property!" the mountain man shouted once more, his hand coming up to protect his head against an invisible blow. The man crumpled to the ground and his eyes flickered shut, but he did not disappear. Blood trickled from a wound on his head and Dean realized it had taken this man, maybe hours, to bleed to death. Death. That was the common denominator.

"These are full on replay hauntings," Dean remarked quietly. "But there's no way all these people died here. There's not a town around for miles."

"They're enhanced somehow," Sam observed, turning to face Dean. "They're solid and able to…" Sam was cut short when yet another man appeared. "Let's go," he said, repeating his sentiment from earlier. "Now."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

They walked as quickly through the woods as they could with Dean's ankle, circling around to skirt the edge of the clearing, but still heading towards to the Impala. The forest had gone silent again and Sam hoped they had moved away from the influence of whatever was causing the remarkably corporeal apparitions to relive their deaths. These weren't the typical, wispy gray-white ghosts of normal hauntings. These spirits were solid, colorful, loud, very vivid instant replays.

He held Dean's arm tightly and slowed his pace. Getting away from the spirits and to the car would be moot if he drove his big brother into the ground in the process. Dean's head drooped and he stumbled every few steps when his feet caught in the underbrush. It was time to rest. Dean was at the end of his endurance.

Sam spotted a log only a few feet in front of them and urged Dean forward. "Come on, Dean, we're almost there," Sam encouraged him.

"Good," Dean replied. At least that is what it sounded like to Sam. He could not really be sure because Dean slurred the word. Sam lowered Dean carefully to the ground and eased him gently against the log. Dean hissed when his injured back made contact with the rough wood.

Sam helped Dean scoot forward and slid in behind him resting his back against the log. He pulled Dean to his chest and his brother's head fell back against his shoulder. He was a pliable rag doll which told Sam how severe his injuries were and how much he was hurting. Dean would not accept this much help if he was in any condition to turn it down. Sam rubbed a hand through his hair in frustration. They were still miles from the car with unexplainably substantial spirits and one, no doubt irate, werewolf out here in the forest with them. To make matters worse, Dean was essentially down for the count, at least for now.

Sam's mind churned through the facts in rapid succession, mulling over different scenarios and possible solutions, but not one materialized into a valid, workable plan to escape and get Dean to safety. His eyes filled with the tears of hopelessness he would never voice.

"This doesn't count as hugging," Dean whispered softly, his words clearer now that he was resting.

Sam huffed in a choked sob. "Course not," he agreed.

Dean tossed him a lop-sided grin, closed his eyes and fell asleep almost immediately. Sam reached behind him, pulled the duffel off his back and quietly untied his rifle from the bag. He sat against the log, Dean resting on his shoulder, hand on his weapon, keeping watch. He rested his chin on Dean's head and pulled him just a little tighter, sneaking a hug from his brother when he could not protest.

Dean's shallow breathing and still too warm skin worried Sam. A twenty foot fall down to the bottom of an old well could have caused injuries that Sam was not even aware of yet. Sometimes internal injuries took awhile to make themselves known and the dark bruising on Dean's lower back was especially troublesome. What would he do if Dean proved to be more hurt than he could handle out here in the middle of nowhere? Even if he carried Dean all the way to the car, it would take too long if something was seriously wrong.

Defenses down due to fatigue and stress, Sam fought to maintain control of his emotions, but his thoughts drifted to the one weighing most heavily on his mind at all times, terrifying him and coloring all of his actions. One year. He had one year to figure out how to save Dean, literally, from hell. Dean would not even discuss it after his initial confession. He joked it off, changed the subject, or angrily told Sam to leave it alone. There was still something about the deal that his big brother was keeping from him and Sam knew it was the reason he avoided the subject of finding a way out of it. Sam theorized Dean had not only sold his soul for him, but had screwed himself in the process, giving too much to the demon and it was something he did not want to have to confess to Sam. Sam banged his fist on the log in frustration. He knew full well that meant Dean was protecting him from something – as usual.

He tried to be angry with Dean for doing it. For burdening him with a shit-load of guilt on top of the guilt he already felt for their mother's and Jessica's deaths. But he couldn't. He would give his life for Dean without hesitation. How could he be angry with his big brother for doing it for him? Sam shifted on the hard ground trying to get more comfortable, jostling Dean. He did not stir which ratcheted up Sam's concern level to orange. Dean always sparked to awareness when they were hunting and Sam moved, or was in pain, or even breathed wrong.

Dean moaned softly in his sleep and Sam shifted again until Dean's head was resting on his arm instead of his shoulder. More of his weight rested on Sam's leg and arm, making him more difficult to hold, but he would be more comfortable in this position. Dean's breath hitched, but steadied back to the shallow rhythm. Sam pulled his thoughts from the dire to the most pressing issue. He needed to get his brother out of here and to a doctor soon. He could not lose Dean, especially not now. Not when he hadn't had enough time to figure out how to prevent the unthinkable.

Sam's own breathing hitched and his chest heaved as he tried to prevent the sobs welling in his chest from escaping through his throat. "K, Sammy?" Dean murmured in his sleep.

"Yeah," Sam whispered in quiet reassurance, giving Dean's arm a quick squeeze. He was surprised how steady his voice sounded. "Go back to sleep."

"K," Dean responded, his muscles visibly relaxing into deeper sleep.

Sam held his breath until Dean succumbed completely to sleep before he let out a single, muffled sob and allowed silent tears to slide down his face. As time wore on, his eyes grew heavier until he drifted off into a light, fitful doze.

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Sam felt movement in front of him and flexed his muscles imperceptibly, pulling Dean closer. His hand tightened on his weapon as Sam opened his eyes. A young girl, by all appearances no older than eight, stood in front of them in bare feet heedless of the rough ground. Her white dressing gown was wet and plastered to her body. Strings of wet hair dripped water onto Sam's boots. When she opened her mouth to speak, water poured out and ran down the front of her gown. Sam pulled Dean even closer and he groaned in protest. The girl's eyes turned glassy and rolled into the back of her head before she disappeared.

He breathed deeply in relief and looked around him in search of any danger. Spotting large stones, sparkling to his near left, Sam slid slowly out from behind Dean. Upon standing he stretched his stiff legs and walked ten paces to the first glittering stone. He took care not to trip into the large dip near the stone and noticed grooves on the smooth surface. He knelt down low and ran his fingers over the etching as he read:

_Harriet Baker_

_Native of England_

_1811 – 1859_

The implication of his discovery dawned and Sam lifted his head to quickly scan the area. Numerous tombstones could be seen scattered throughout the large tree grove. They were resting in a pioneer graveyard.

He hurried back to Dean and shook him gently, trying to roust him. "Dean, time to go," Sam said emphatically. He wanted to get Dean back out into the clearing where they could see what they were up against. Sam was sure they would continue to run into the spirits, but at least they would see them coming. Sam hoped that if he could get them back to the spot in the forest where they were hunting last night, they would only have the werewolf to contend with.

"K," Dean mumbled, but he made no attempt to move or open his eyes.

"Come on, Dean, just to the clearing. It's only about thirty feet," Sam insisted. He was prepared to carry Dean the short distance, but he thought it would be too much stress on his ribs. He tugged lightly on Dean's elbow. Dean lifted his head and nodded to indicate he was ready.

He levered Dean up and stood beside him, holding him steady. Sam bent to pick up the duffel and slung it over his free shoulder. Picking up the rifle, his grip firm on Dean's arm, he began to steer him towards the edge of the clearing.

Sam adjusted his grip on Dean's elbow when Dean sagged. His foot slipped into the dip of a sunken grave and Dean's weight shifted to follow. Sam was still struggling to regain his footing when it happened.

"Dean!" his own voice came calling through the trees and over the concrete tombstones. The absolute relief and joy he had felt at seeing his brother alive, clearly evident in the tone. "Dean!" it came again and he felt Dean's weight lift from his grip as Dean righted himself and turned to the Sam who was staggering wearily towards them.

"Sam!" Dean called loudly beside him, startling him out of his reverie at witnessing this moment. Dean ran to the other Sam heedless of his injuries and apparently blind to everything, but the tragic event unfolding again in front of him.

Illuminated clearly by the moonlight he saw the other Sam arch backwards, pain and shock visible on his face before he crumpled to his knees, sagging as Dean reached him. Sam remained motionless to the scene in front of him; he regretted this moment with every fiber of his being. This was the moment he had let his guard down, so relieved to see Dean that he had forgotten everything else. This was the moment that had cost him his life and ultimately the life of his older brother. Unable to tear himself away as Dean broke down in front of him, he watched as his doppelganger's head lolled and his body went limp; he listened as Dean offered false reassurances to his counterpart. When the other Sam disappeared, Dean shouted his name, spurring Sam into action.

He ran for Dean who lay crumpled on the ground. Sam could hear his brother's sobs and see that he was trembling. Sam knelt down on the soft forest floor and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean?" he asked gently. Dean did not lift his head. "Dean?" Sam asked again, more firmly this time.

Dean looked up at Sam with tear-filled eyes and enveloped his little brother in a fierce embrace. Unlike the cabin he had awoken in, Sam returned this hug with equal fervor no longer deterred by painful, healing injuries. "It'll be okay, Dean," he whispered into Dean's hair, rocking his brother slightly. "It'll be okay," Sam repeated his own eyes filling with salty water, as Dean clung desperately to him, clutching at his coat. "I'll take care of this, I promise."

Sam did not know how he was going to keep that promise, but he would.

……………………………………………………..**Supernatural**……………………………………………………………

AN: Pioneer graveyards can really be like this. I visited one last weekend. It was truly miles from any town, through the woods, up the hill, no roads of any kind, no clearing and white gravestone markers nestled in the shade of old growth trees. The oldest grave I saw was a woman who had died in 1859 (Not Harriet Baker). (c:


	5. Chapter 5

**Where's Waldo?**

**Disclaimer: **They aren't mine. If they were, I wouldn't take a summer hiatus. BG.

**Beta'd: **By the fabulous Wysawyg, an editing force majeure! Thanks for the flaming duck! This chapter required serious rework after Wysawyg beta'd so any and all remaining errors are my own.

**Oops!: **My apologies to any one of perhaps twenty people who read the first version of chapter 4 I posted. I added more substance to one particular scene and when I copy/pasted it in, I left in two, too many paragraphs resulting in a strange zig-zagging scene (thanks to Heather for alerting me to the mistake). Further proof in the pudding that Wysawyg is worth her weight in gold! She had been very busy last week and I tried to let her off the hook with chapter 4. My mistake. (c:

………………………………………………………….**Chapter 5**……………………………………………………………….

_Dean looked up at Sam with tear-filled eyes and enveloped his little brother in a fierce embrace. Unlike the cabin he had awoken in, Sam returned this hug with equal fervor no longer deterred by painful, healing injuries. "It'll be okay, Dean," he whispered into Dean's hair, rocking his brother slightly. "It'll be okay," Sam repeated his own eyes filling with salty water, as Dean clung desperately to him, clutching at his coat. "I'll take care of this, I promise." _

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Dean's back throbbed. His head pounded. His ribs ached and his ankle was sore. Hell, even his hair hurt. He did not want to open his eyes, but he was afraid he'd fall asleep again. He'd had that dream again - the one where he relived Sam's death, his Sammy, his little brother, dying in his arms. Not that it was unusual for him to have that particular remembrance dream, but it always left him feeling so lost and empty.

He would normally startle awake, unsure if he had dreamed the death, or dreamed his deal with the crossroads demon, or if Sammy was actually gone and he was alone after all. Somehow the dream had been different this time, but Dean could not quite place his finger on how. That was until he remembered the end when Sam had come back and told him it would be okay. That was not how the dream normally unfolded.

Deciding he had lain around long enough, Dean took a mental inventory of the sounds around him, trying to remember where he'd fallen asleep. He did not hear Sam and that caused the familiar flutter of panic upon waking that he typically experienced these days. There was no sound of Sam's rhythmic breathing signaling that he slept or tossing restlessly in the next bed. Dean could not hear Sam typing at the keyboard or moving about the room packing up his stuff or rifling through books. There was no cascading water from the shower and he started to worry that the part of the dream that was true was that Sam was truly gone.

Recent memories drifted through Dean's mind, colliding, coalescing, touching the corners of haziness and sweeping away some of his confusion. He could not be absolutely certain which events were memory and which were dreams, but Farmer Gibbs and his dire news regarding Sam sent his stomach churning and he sat bolt upright, eyes shooting open, his brother's name on his lips.

"I'm right here," Sam reassured him appearing from behind the thick underbrush. He zigzagged back to Dean, carrying several long sticks in both hands. At least Dean thought Sam weaved as he went, but he was feeling light-headed and knew it could be a trick of his mind. The beam from Sam's flashlight bobbed along the ground in an erratic pattern causing Dean's stomach to flip.

"Why are you walking around like you're drunk?" Dean asked, wincing at the volume of his voice cutting through his brain. "You holding out on me, Sammy?"

Sam cast him a guilty look. "No," he replied with a weak smile. "Just trying to avoid the holes." Sam kept his gaze averted. He crouched low and focused instead on Dean's swollen and discolored ankle. "It's looking pretty bad. We need to keep you off of it somehow."

Dean frowned when Sam's fingers lightly probed the edematous limb. "How do you suggest we do that?" he asked. He had a nagging suspicion he was not going to like the answer.

"I'm going to build a travois," Sam replied, still not looking up at Dean. "It'll take a little while to construct and the ride will suck, but I'm not sure there's another choice here."

"Just hand me one of those sticks and I'll walk back to the car," Dean insisted.

"Dean…" Sam started, worry causing a slight waver in his voice.

"Sam, no! You're not pulling me in some kind of makeshift sled. I can walk out of here," Dean announced and promptly attempted to lever himself to an upright position. He only made it half-way before slipping down again, his back scraping against the decaying log. Hissing in pain, Dean stopped struggling to stand and concentrated instead on lowering himself carefully to the ground. "You know, on second thought, I kind of like it right here. The ground's nice and soft," Dean stated.

Sam resisted an eye roll. "Let me take a look at your back," he commanded, sitting down on the log behind Dean. "Lean forward a little." Sam pulled on the hem of his brother's shirt, trying to get a better look at his injuries.

"Sam, knock it off," Dean protested, trying to bat Sam's hands away, but he could not twist far enough to push Sam away without his back muscles cramping.

Sam lifted Dean's shirt and shined his flashlight on the bruises on his brother's back. The bruises had deepened and darkened. Smaller bruises appeared where once there was none and the large, purple bruise on Dean's lower back had grown impossibly dark, almost black in the dim light. He lowered the shirt and moved on to the back of Dean's head.

His long fingers parted the short hair on the back of his brother's head and searched for the large lump he had discovered only a few short hours earlier. "Ow," Dean groaned, lifting his hand to his head.

"There's still a huge lump. I'm sure it hurts," Sam empathized, noting the wound was not bleeding, but still glowed an angry red.

"It does when you poke it," Dean countered, this time successfully brushing Sam's hand away from the offending lump.

"Sorry," Sam murmured. "It doesn't look any worse," he stated. He continued at the look of 'I told you so' on Dean's face, "It doesn't look any better either." Dean frowned.

Sam chuckled under his breath at the petulant look on Dean's face. He stood up and walked over to the bundle of long sticks he had gathered earlier. Pulling the sticks closer to Dean and searching through the discarded duffel bag for the rope, Sam pulled out a length of it, coiling it around his hand as he went. The rope stretched taut over the forgotten burns on his palms and he winced imperceptibly.

_Almost imperceptibly._

"Sam, are you hurt?" Dean asked, leaning forward and grabbing Sam's hands. He pulled them close to his eyes and squinted.

"I'm fine," Sam snapped, roughly jerking his hands away from Dean's inspection.

"Sam…"

"I told you Dean, It's my turn to take care of you," Sam replied sternly.

"That's not the way this works, Sammy," Dean said with a smirk. He was aiming for humor to diffuse the situation, but it clearly backfired with his serious little brother.

"I promised I'd take care of this and I will," Sam replied softly.

Dean's mind whirled and the final pieces of memory clicked together. He recalled in vivid detail seeing what he thought was Sam dying in front of him, but was not. The real Sam, his Sammy, held him and told him it would be okay and that he would take care of it. Now it was Dean who resolutely refused to make eye contact with his brother.

He wanted to ask what had happened. What had caused the replay of his brother's, well, the incident with Sam? It had happened over a thousand miles east of here. How was it possible to have a replay haunting of an event that not only occurred so far away, but also had the ghost in question actually alive and well and sitting only feet in front of him? He wanted to know, but he could not bring himself to ask Sam and acknowledge his own fears. Now, here was his little brother, trying to usurp his place. Sure, he knew Sam had his back, but it was his job to keep his brother safe, not the other way around.

He had spent nearly his entire life watching out for his little brother. It wasn't just what he did; it was an integral piece of who he was. When he finally lifted his gaze, he met Sam's intense hazel scrutiny. "Sam, I don't know how to be the person you're asking me to be," he admitted softly.

"We'll figure it out," Sam reassured him, his gaze resting softly on Dean for a moment before turning back to the rope. Once he had the desired length, he cut the rope and picked up several of the sticks in succession, examining them for suitability and discarding most. He needed to hurry. The knock to Dean's head seemed to be disagreeing with him more than usual.

It occurred to Sam that he had not offered Dean any water yet and when he looked up Dean was drifting off to sleep again already. Sam picked up the canteen and sat down on the ground next to him.

"Think you could drink a little for me before crashing again?" Sam asked, holding the open canteen out for Dean.

"Yeah," Dean replied sleepily. He took a long drink of water, allowing the tepid water to soothe his irritated throat. Sam took the canteen from his hand and exchanged it for half a power bar. Dean eyed it warily.

"Still feeling nauseated?" Sam asked, his hazel eyes glinting with concern.

"A little," Dean replied honestly, still eying the food bar as if it were a rabid squirrel. "I just really don't want to puke again."

Sam chuckled lightly. "I think we can put that at the top of both of our lists of things to avoid," he agreed. He took a small sip out of the canteen, screwed on the lid and left it next to Dean before returning to his stick pile.

Dean did not take a bite of the food bar, but instead turned his attention back to his brother. "I don't like this new plan of yours," he blurted. Sam pushed dark bangs out of his eyes, looked up at Dean and noted the pouting expression on his face, but there was something else as well. The corners of his brother's face pinched in pain.

"Ribs or back?" Sam asked bluntly.

Dean turned his face away. Sam really was too good at this. He did not answer for quite some time and when he turned back to look at his little brother, Sam simply returned his gaze, waiting for an answer. "I can walk," Dean said, although he suspected the arm-crossing did not help his case any judging by the raised eyebrow response he received. "I can," he repeated.

Several emotions scrolled across Sam's face: annoyance, frustration, concern, fear, but settled on a carefully neutral look. "I suppose this one would work as a walking stick of sorts," Sam said, holding out a strong, gnarled branch.

"Let's get moving then," Dean stated, pushing himself up from the ground, using the log and his new walking stick as leverage. "We're running out of time before dawn."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The progress was slow, too slow. Sam walked carefully, avoiding any graves on their route out of the woods. Stepping in the grave earlier did not explain the replay of his death, but he wasn't taking any chances. He also did not care to see if Dean's two near death experiences would qualify in this place, causing them to relive those moments. Dean was leaning heavily against him, throwing him off center, making it all the more difficult to keep an eye out for old graves or the remaining werewolf. Added to that, the potential travois frame sticks he had tied to the duffel knocked him on the back of the head any time they stumbled.

One particularly spectacular misstep and tumble sent Sam to the ground, smashed between the lumpy duffel and Dean. "Dean, are you okay?" Sam wheezed, trying to maneuver himself out from under Dean without hurting him.

"Yeah," Dean answered tightly.

Sam stood and pulled Dean to his feet, forcing a groan of pain from his brother. "Sorry," Sam mumbled. "There're only a few more feet to go until we get to the clearing. We can rest there."

Dean nodded and allowed himself to be led blindly. He knew he had to keep up or Sam would insist on that damnable travois. "I'm good," he said. He meant for it to sound reassuring, but even to his own ears it sounded flat and tired.

Sam gripped Dean's arm tighter and pushed on towards the clearing. He held the rifle tightly in his free hand, his eyes continuously scanning the nearby area for activity. Sam could tell Dean was nearing the end of his endurance level and he needed to get him back to the car and medical attention. Dean stumbled again and Sam compensated for the weight shift. Just a few more steps and they'd be on the far side of the clearing. Precious little progress for the last hour's worth of work.

"Sam?" Dean whispered, stopping before they stepped into the clearing.

"Yeah?"

"Werewolf," Dean stated urgently, nodding towards Sam's right.

Sam followed the line of sight to the wooded area on his right. He squinted into the dark, tree-lined expanse, but he didn't see the werewolf. How had his temporarily myopic brother seen a werewolf at this distance, in the dark? It was then he noticed the stillness in the area and moments later the distinctive odor of wet dog coupled with decaying meat reached his nose. He realized Dean had not seen the werewolf after all, he had smelled him. Sam had barely a moment to revel in his brother's hunting prowess before an unearthly howl rent the air.

Sam hesitated for a moment, unsure of Dean's ability to hold his own, until he was shoved by his brother. "Go," Dean instructed.

He shrugged off the duffel, cast a concerned look in Dean's direction and took off in the direction of the lycanthrope's howl. The thick underbrush impeded his progress and Sam nearly tripped twice when his feet became ensnarled in vine ground cover foliage. He ducked under a patch of manzanita branches and glimpsed the brown fur of the werewolf through the thick brush. The lupine could not possible be unaware of his approach and yet it seemed to make no move to take cover. It became readily apparent to Sam that it was waiting for him.

The underbrush stood between Sam and a clean shot at the werewolf. He would have to move in closer to guarantee a kill shot and risk the wolf taking off too quickly or turning to rush him. Sam scrambled up a steep incline, the branch of a thorny blackberry bush tangling in his clothes and hair. _Come on, come on, come on, _he thought, pulling frantically on the branch, the thorns catching on his scalp. _If I have to tell Dean I missed our chance at this thing because of my hair, he'll never let me live it down. Probably shave my head while I'm sleeping._

Finally free, he emerged on the other side of the tangle relatively unscathed only to come face to face with an angry werewolf. Sam ducked quickly and narrowly avoided the swipe of long claws along his face. He scrambled further uphill, his feet slipping on loose shale as he clumsily maneuvered out of the path of another attack of the werewolf's huge paws.

The bite on his ankle burned hot when he turned swiftly to the right and led the werewolf back towards the underbrush. He hoped it would give him a slight advantage with his smaller size and greater agility. He could not rely on strength to fight the werewolf, he would need to be cunning and outsmart it. Sam skidded to a stop before he reached the brush. If he was able to lure it further into the thorny bushes, the werewolf would lose speed, possibly giving Sam the time he needed to fire at it.

Ducking low under manzanita branches, Sam swerved sharply running further into the bushes. He abruptly spun to face the lycanthrope and raised his weapon high. With a ferocious growl it hit Sam full on the chest, knocking him backwards. Sam stumbled, trying to regain his footing when his heels hit the steep decline and he fell into the underbrush. Luck was with him and he missed the blackberry bush, but sharp branches cut into his back and his hand slipped off his weapon. It slid further downhill out of arm's reach and Sam twisted, sliding on his stomach to reach for it.

Momentum carried him downhill and he ducked his head to avoid snagging the thorny bushes. The rifle stopped, caught in the vines and Sam stretched out his arm to grab it. He could hear crashing in the underbrush behind him as fingers made contact with the weapon. The crashing behind him stopped and he flipped over onto his back, rifle in hand and fired. A deafening shot from downhill simultaneously rang through the air and Sam looked over his shoulder in the direction of the noise. His brother, his stupid, injured, concussed brother was standing at the foot of the hill, braced against a tree, Sam's Beretta held by shaking arms.

Sam turned his head back around in time to see the werewolf fall into the prickly blackberry bushes less than a foot behind him, the shock in the all-too-human face captured perfectly. He scrambled to his feet, not pausing to examine the werewolf on his mad flight down the hill to the tree Dean was leaning against. "Dean!" he called as he drew near. Dean nodded in acknowledgement then slid down the tree, his bruised back sliding the entire length on rough bark.

Sam set down his rifle and caught Dean by the collar before he hit bottom. He lowered his brother slowly to the ground and crouched down next to him. Dean winced and Sam could see him shivering. "Dean, you with me, man?"

"Cold," Dean replied. The shaking worsened and his teeth began chattering.

Sam pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and shone it over Dean. His face was beet red even in the meager artificial lighting and Sam could feel the heat off his skin. "I think it's from the sunburn." _Or shock. _He placed a hand on Dean's forehead and it was promptly batted away.

"Stop it, Sam," he said. "I'm fine, just cold."

"You're not just cold," Sam argued, furrowing his brow. "And now that the only time sensitive issue has been resolved, we can go slower, figure out the best way to get out of here." He had not seen any more replay hauntings after three a.m. and he hoped that meant they were done for the night. He noticed the look that crossed Dean's face and added unnecessarily, "You got it, Dean."

"You doubted me?" Dean asked with mock offense.

"You? Never," Sam replied sincerely. "Your aim when you can't see straight?" He stopped at the momentary hurt look that crossed Dean's face. "Not for a minute."

"You always were a bad liar, Sam," Dean replied, his voice deceptively strong.

"Only to you," Sam defended. "I can obfuscate with the best of them."

"Whatever," Dean said, the shivering renewed. He tried to keep his eyes open, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to do so.

"You're not going to be sick again, are you?" Sam asked. He kept his tone light even though he grew increasingly concerned for Dean.

"Not unless you're planning on another caring and sharing moment," Dean quipped, not opening his eyes.

"I think we've both had enough of those for awhile," Sam stated.

He would keep his thoughts to himself, his concern buried if that is what Dean wanted, but every passing second that ticked by beat through his veins with a pulse of its own. No matter what he had told Dean, he could not help but want to hurry. To have a doctor confirm that Dean only had a concussion, bruised ribs and one hell of a sunburn. It would put his fears of internal bleeding or a severe head injury to rest and selfishly release him from sole responsibility for Dean's physical well-being and into the hands of a professional.

Sam sat down next to Dean, close enough that their shoulders touched to formulate a plan. He felt, before he heard, someone approaching from behind. His hand reached for the rifle that rested only inches from his fingertips and slowly pulled it towards him. His brother did not stir and Sam thought for a minute he had imagined the feeling. That was until a booming voice behind them announced, "You boys shouldn't be here," and the distinctive sound of a weapon being primed.

……………………………………………………….**Supernatural**……………………………………………………

AN: I apologize for this chapter taking so long. I normally post twice a week, but RL interfered. My sister surprised me with a visit from Minnesota! She and my two little nephews, aged four and seven, have been here for a week. We spent four days at the beach and boy, are we scorched! I've also remembered an important fact: raising young children is for the young.

I am tired. Hee.

/TraSan yawns and blinks rapidly trying to stay awake.

They'll be here another week, so I probably will only get out one chapter this week too before resuming my normal posting schedule. Sorry.

By the by - I've introduced my little sister to Supernatural and she is totally hooked. She's watched 20 episodes of season one in two days and despite the fact we shoo'd my nephews out of the living room when it was on, they sneaked a couple of peeks. They were pretending to be Sam and Dean, hunting a shtriga earlier. BG.


	6. Chapter 6

**Where's Waldo?**

**Disclaimer: **I don't make any money from Supernatural because I don't own it. Drat.

**Beta'd: **By Wysawyg who is not only a talented author, but a wonderful beta and to top it all off, made me a cool flame-retardant duck pic! Hee.

As always, some fine-tuning was required after it was beta'd, so any remaining errors you spot are mine and mine alone.

**Special Thanks: **To Heather for her expertise and suggestion and Charlie Girl for spotting the typos.

…….…………………………………………………….**Chapter 6**………………………………………………………….

_Sam sat down next to Dean, close enough that their shoulders touched to formulate a plan. He felt, before he heard, someone approaching from behind. His hand reached for the rifle that rested only inches from his fingertips and slowly pulled it towards him. His brother did not stir and Sam thought for a minute he had imagined the feeling. That was until Sam heard a booming voice behind them announce, "You boys shouldn't be here," and the distinctive sound of a weapon being primed._

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"Don't even think about firing that rifle, son," the voice warned. "I'm may not be as fast as you two, but I'm deadly accurate, so don't try anything funny."

Sam released his hold on the weapon, his only thought keeping Dean safe from this new, as yet unseen, threat. "I'm not trying anything. My brother and I were hiking and we didn't get out of the woods before dark," Sam stated, attempting to put the man behind him at ease. He wanted to turn to get a look at him, but Sam knew it was better not to make any sudden movements that might be misconstrued as, 'trying something.'

"Bullshit," the man stated hotly, stepping into view. "You're hunters, the both of you. Can't even tell which one of ya got that last werewolf, both were kill shots. Tried to bring down that pack myself, but nothing worked. What'd you use?"

Sam swallowed his first impulse to deny any knowledge of what the large, wild-looking man in scruffy clothes was referring to. He had a feeling any further attempts at subterfuge would be met with open hostility. The man still had his gun trained on Dean and Sam was not about to risk his brother's safety. Dean remained motionless and that was more disconcerting than the mountain man's gun. Dean and motionless rarely belonged together in the same sentence. "Silver bullets," Sam replied finally.

The man smiled, his missing teeth visible even in the dim light. "So, that's not a myth?" The man lowered his weapon and held out his hand. He smelled as if it had been at least a week since his last shower. "The name's Mike."

As Sam reached out to shake Mountain Mike's hand, he was hit by a waft of sage, alfalfa and cigar smoke. "Sam. This is my brother Dean," Sam said. He quickly weighed the benefits and risks to pulling Mike into the equation. "I need to get my brother back to our car and to the nearest doctor. I don't suppose you know the quickest…"

Before Sam could finish his question, Mike had a grip on Dean's arm. "Don't just sit there, kid," he said. "Grab an arm and let's get him out of here."

"What do you think you're doing?" Sam asked, grabbing the sleeve of Mike shirt.

"I'm going to help you," Mike replied. "I live out here and I walk these hills every day. I can get you back faster."

"I've got it. Just point me in the direction of the quickest route," Sam stated firmly, pulling Dean out of Mike's grasp.

"Look kid, I understand not wanting to accept help from a stranger in the middle of nowhere, but you boys look like you've been beat to hell. You can use the help. He can use the help," Mike insisted.

"Okay," Sam agreed reluctantly after deliberating the options. He stood slowly and shouldered the duffel bag. He picked up the rifle in one hand and helped Mike lift Dean with the other.

Dean groaned as he was lifted bodily from the forest floor. "Easy on the Dean, Grizzly Adams," Dean sniped, cracking open one eye and getting a look at Mike. Sam cast him a concerned sidelong glance at his lack of resistance to the extra help.

"The Dean? You're talking about yourself in the third person now?" Sam joked, pointedly ignoring the fact that his brother could not stand on his own. 'The Dean' would be appreciative of his selective observation skills.

"Hey, I'm too much Dean to be contained," Dean replied with a weak grin.

"Well, that's true," Sam agreed with a slight head nod. He tightened his grip on Dean's arm as they traversed the uneven ground. He limped slightly as he favored the leg with the throbbing snake bite. "Though, I'm not sure in the way you're suggesting."

Dean attempted a glare at his brother and Mike chuckled. "You two really are brothers," Mike observed. Sam stumbled when his boot caught in the long vines of a blooming flower cluster. "Careful there…swee'pea," Mike cautioned, nodding in Sam's direction.

Sam furrowed his brow and threw Mike a cautious look out of the corner of his eye. "What?" he asked.

"Swee'pea," Mike said gesturing to the multitude of blooming shrub growth in the area, now visible in the growing light. "The stuff grows everywhere and the vines run low to the ground. Easy to miss seeing, hard to avoid stepping in."

Sam nodded and then had to reposition his grip on Dean as his brother's knees gave out. "Whoa, Dean, you okay?"

"I'm fine," Dean replied, voicing his oft spoken lie. Sam noticed he was barely putting any weight on the injured ankle and he winced every time they hit a low spot that jarred him.

"We're parked on Waldo road, a few miles that way," Sam stated to Mike with a head nod, trying to steer Dean and Mike further to the left.

"That's your Impala?" Mike replied with a note of appreciation in his voice. "Very nice. Caught sight of it yesterday when I was out hunting a rogue cat." He resisted Sam's attempt at changing their direction. "My place is just over that ridge," he said, waving his free hand uphill. "You boys can rest there and I'll bring the car around. It's about five miles southwest of my place, but I can drive it to within a mile. That'll allow your brother here to take it easy for a bit and save you some time."

"No one but me drives that car," Dean insisted although his voice sounded weak to Sam's ears.

"Come on, Dean," Sam said, stopping briefly to turn towards Dean and look him in the face. There was no way Sam was leaving Dean with Mike and walking back for the car and retrieving the car was by far the best course of action. "Humor me, it's been a long night." Sam took in Dean's unwavering expression and altered his argument slightly. "I'm tired. I'd really like to take a break."

Dean focused pain-glazed eyes on his little brother. He took in the dried blood that started at Sam's hair-line, continued down his face and disappeared under his coat collar. Sam really did look tired, but Dean knew it was a cover story. "Sam…" Dean protested.

"Dean," Sam interrupted firmly, holding out his hand. "Keys."

Dean hesitated only a moment longer before handing the keys over to Sam. He turned his attention to Mike and said, "You better be careful with her."

"Groovy ride like that? You bet I will be," Mike replied. "You're a smart man; you'd never catch me driving a car newer than a 1981."

"Why's that?" Dean forced out as they started moving again.

"Any car newer than that's got one of those computer chips in 'em so the government can disable all the cars in the U.S.," Mike replied matter-of-factly. "You know, in case of disaster to keep the roads from getting gridlocked or to contain the losses during viral outbreaks."

Sam caught the look Dean shot him and shrugged his shoulders. He could hear Dean's unspoken message clearly, 'Demons I get. People are crazy.' As they topped the ridge, Sam shaded his eyes, scanning the area for Mike's house. "How far did you say it was?" Sam asked, concerned for Dean's ability to continue on.

"Right there," Mike answered, pointing down into a thicket of trees. Sam squinted into the wooded area and finally spotted it. Mike's place was literally a stick house. It appeared to be no more than a twelve by twelve, ramshackle abode constructed of cedar and evergreen branches. As they approached, Sam realized it was only about five feet high.

When Mike lifted the canvas-flap covering over the doorway and gestured them inside, Sam asked, "How long until you'll be back?" He already regretted convincing Dean to let Mike drive the car. He could easily strand them here and it would be days before they could make it the ten remaining miles down Waldo road and back to the highway. His glance strayed involuntarily to his semi-conscious brother.

"About an hour and a half," Mike replied. "Go ahead and take him inside. There's a bedroll he can lay on and there's fresh water for drinking and to clean him up."

Sam paused a moment longer, hesitant to give Mike the upper hand by allowing him to enter last. Finally, he pushed away doubt and stumbled into the makeshift house all but carrying his big brother. He blinked, giving his eyes time to adjust to the dim interior.

Shafts of light filtered through the spaces between the branches on the east side of the hut softly illuminating one side of the dark room. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, a small cooking area rested in the southeast corner and the bedroll lay directly in front of them. Sam gently lowered Dean to the bed of crumpled blankets on the ground. Dean threw one arm over his head and closed his eyes.

"I've got some aloe salve for that sunburn," Mike stated, walking back to where Sam knelt next to Dean. He set several hand-dipped candles out on the ground near Dean. "It'll help take the sting out."

A small, undecorated clay container appeared in front of Sam's face. "Thanks," he replied, setting the jar down. He carefully removed Dean's coat and started pulling up the shirt when he met with resistance. "Come on, Dean, I need to see."

"G'way, Sam," Dean protested tiredly, swatting blindly at Sam's hands.

"Nope," Sam replied firmly. "Now stop it." He helped Dean to a sitting position and this time he managed to get the shirt off without Dean hampering his efforts. Sam saw Mike lean in for a closer look before he lowered Dean back to the blankets. When he began tugging off the first shoe Dean pulled his foot away and gasped.

"Ow," Dean reminded him sarcastically. "Could you try not pulling my foot off with the boot?"

"Sorry, your entire foot is swollen," Sam apologized. He gave it a final tug and Dean's foot popped out of the boot. Dean sighed softly in relief and propped himself up on his elbows.

"Mind if I ask how this happened?" Mike asked, leaning in again this time for a closer look at Dean's ankle. "Looks like you took a nasty tumble."

"More like a fall off a two-story building," Sam responded. Mike's head was blocking the meager light and Sam shouldered him out of the way. "He was stuck in an old, dried up well for nearly an entire day."

"He is perfectly capable of speaking for himself," Dean protested.

"True enough," Mike agreed, turning his attention back to Dean. "That how you hurt your ankle too?"

"Trying to climb out," Dean replied surly after a long pause. "Didn't make it, fell back into the well." He winced when Sam pushed his folded coat under the swollen foot.

"I saw those bruises on your back when Sam took off your shirt," Mike stated. "You be honest with me, sonny. Does it hurt when you take a leak?" Mike's question was met with a look of surprise from Sam and a guilty flush from Dean. "I'll take that as a yes," Mike replied.

"What?" Sam asked. He caught the death glare Dean was shooting Mike. Sam was certain it was because he was upset at Mike calling Dean on the pain in front of him, not the question itself. "Why didn't you say something?" he asked sternly. "God, Dean, you insisted we finish hunting that werewolf and you knew something was wrong? We should've left right away."

"That would be why," Dean replied. "I didn't want you to overreact."

"Overreact?" Sam asked incredulously. He huffed in frustration. "Overreact?" He turned to Mike. "Do you think it's his kidneys?"

"Yep," Mike replied succinctly. "Guess I should've told you, I was a field medic in Vietnam." The look of relief on Sam's face caused Mike to chuckle, despite the circumstances. "Long time ago now, best I can do is help patch him up and give you a guess as to what we're facing."

"Whatever you can do…thanks," Sam replied with a smile of gratitude.

"Do I have a say in this?" Dean asked, with his best attempt at a look of disdain for the idea.

"No," Mike and Sam replied together.

Dean shot his brother a glare that served as a warning shot off the bow. "Sam…"

"Dean, just let him look, okay?" Sam asked. "I won't run down the laundry list of the reasons why you should, or try to manipulate you into doing it, I'm just asking you straight up." Dean continued to glare petulantly, but Sam could see he was tossing the idea about.

Mike nodded to Dean. "Fact is, you're hurt and it could be something we need to watch. To make it fair, I'll check out your brother too before I leave for the car."

"What? No." Sam contradicted. "I'm fine. There's no reason to waste time when Dean needs a doctor."

"Hmm, that so?" Mike asked, with a knowing look. He focused on Dean. "Can you roll onto your side and let me take a look?"

"What's wrong with Sam?" Dean asked predictably, making no attempt to roll and trying to sit up instead. _How had he missed something wrong with Sam? His Sammy sense must need recalibrating._

Sam frowned making no effort to hide his displeasure at Mike's attempt at manipulation. "Eh, probably nothing," Mike replied, realizing too late his mistake. He rested a hand on Dean's struggling shoulder and that small pressure was enough to keep him from being able to sit up. "See? That there is why you need to let me have a look," Mike sighed at Dean's continued efforts. "Sam's just got some bleeding on his head. Nothing to worry about."

Sam nodded the affirmative at the questioning look Dean shot him. It was not a lie. It was a misleading half truth and Sam and Mike both knew it, but it was not a lie. "Come on, Dean, let's get this over with. Every minute we delay is another minute the Impala languishes in exile on an old, dusty logging road," Sam teased, tongue in cheek.

"Can't have my baby thinking I left her," Dean cracked with a half-wattage, lop-sided grin. He grudgingly lay back and turned on his side. In this new position, Dean's breath hitched and he wheezed in shallow gasps.

Sam winced at the appearance of Dean's back. It was worse than yesterday. Much worse. It was difficult to determine where one bruise or cut ended and the next began. A few were now turning a lighter shade of red, most were dark red; some were so dark they were purple. The large, spongy bruise on Dean's lower back was nearly black.

Mike applied pressure along his ribs and stopped at a sharp intake of breath from Dean. He prodded for a moment longer then stated, "I don't think anything is broken, which is nearly unbelievable. Probably cracked or bruised, but I don't feel any protruding bones. Doesn't mean there aren't any, it's just a good sign."

Dean grunted in response and Mike continued his examination. His fingers had barely made contact with the large bruise when Dean arched away from him with a groan uttered through closed lips. Mike followed and pushed on the bruise in several places. This time the groan escaped in a puff of explosive air.

Sam grabbed Mike's wrist and pulled his hand forcibly away from Dean. "I think that's enough. It's obvious he's hurt," he snarled.

Mike tugged against the grip on his wrist and when it was obvious Sam was not going to let go he said, "Sam, I was trying to figure out how deep the bruising is."

"Deep enough," Sam hissed, his voice dangerously low.

Mike eyed Sam with a new appreciation. It was not that he had underestimated the man. He had seen first-hand his hunting ability. There was something about Sam though, that seemed so open and genuine that it was easy to forget he was not harmless. Especially, it appeared, when he was guard-dogging his brother. He held up his wrist with Sam's hand attached and gave it a light shake. Sam released his grip, but did not sit back.

"Dean, it looks as though your kidneys do have some amount of damage, but I'd say based on your activity level and how long it's been that it's simply bruising. Course, we need a doctor to say for sure," Mike stated, moving away from Dean and allowing Sam to take the spot next to his brother.

Sam helped Dean ease onto his back and turned his head to glare at Mike when he lifted Dean's foot to look at the swelling. "You don't have to do that. He's not going anywhere," Sam stated.

"True enough," Mike replied, setting Dean's foot back on the folded coat. "Anything else I should look at?"

"His head," Sam replied reluctantly after a pause. He rummaged through the duffle bag and produced the flashlight for Mike. "There's no sign of anything other than a concussion, but it would be good to get a second opinion."

"Will do," Mike said. He stood up and crouch-walked back around Sam to Dean's head. "Dean, have you had any headaches, nausea, dizziness or vision problems?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, squeezing his eyes closed when a light was shone in his eyes.

"I'd say you're right there," Mike replied, taking note of Dean's unequal pupils. "A concussion and a pretty good one at that."

Sam breathed a small sigh of relief that it was what he expected and not something even more serious. "Here are the keys," Sam hinted, handing the Impala keys to Mike. "But for both our sakes, drive carefully."

Mike laughed. "Sure enough will."

Sam turned his attention back to Dean. He could hear Mike in the background, rummaging through supplies, but he did not shift his focus from his brother. Dean's shallow breathing and pained expression catapulted Sam back into action. He opened the duffel bag and pulled ibuprofen out of the medkit. He thought better of it when he remembered it could interfere with the blood's ability to clot. He sat back on his feet temporarily stumped as to what to do to ease Dean's pain.

"Good call on the ibuprofen," Mike commented, materializing behind Sam's shoulder. Sam detected the acrid scent of smoke behind him and turned to look at Mike. He was puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette and puffing in the boys' general direction. "You don't mind do you?" he asked, holding out the cigarette.

"Uh, no," Sam replied. He did not feel he could protest Mike smoking in his own house, but he was not happy about it.

"Here's some ointment for the cuts on his back," Mike said, handing Sam another clay jar. "It'll work on all cuts and help fight infection." Mike nodded to Sam's arm and gave him a conspiratorial wink. Mike turned to Dean. "You know, I could make you some herbal tea for the pain."

"No tea," Dean replied emphatically. He'd lost any taste for tea he had after the incident with the Necromancer.

"Okay, no tea," Mike chuckled. "I'm gonna go get your car now."

"You drive her slow over those potholes," Dean admonished, shaking his finger at Mike. Mike nodded.

"We'll be ready to head out when you get back," Sam said by way of good-bye.

"Good enough," Mike replied.

He started to leave when Dean asked, "Mike, have you seen anything unusual out in the woods?"

"You mean besides the werewolves?" Mike asked with a smirk.

"Yeah, more like spirits? Ghosts?" Dean asked, propping himself on his elbows again.

"Dean?" Sam questioned, wrinkling his brow.

Mike crouched back down next to Sam. The cigarette dangled loosely in his lips and Sam was amazed it did not start his wiry, gray beard on fire. "Son, Waldo is one of the lost ghost towns of Oregon," Mike supplied. He blew a puff of smoke directly towards Dean.

"It was a town?" Sam asked with a cough. The morning breeze had died and the smoke was filling the small, stick shack with a green haze.

"Yep, back in the 1850's there were 30,000 people living in Waldo. It was a gold mining town like a lot of those in southern Oregon. That's why there's a Protestant, a Catholic and a Chinese cemetery in these woods. A gold mine brought a lot of diversity in those days. There's even a few Native American graves around here somewhere," Mike explained.

"What happened?" Sam asked, waving a hand discreetly in front of his face.

"Same thing that happened to a lot of towns out here," Mike said. "Mine dried up, the railway and the new highway both bypassed Waldo and pretty soon there was nothing left, but the Gibbs general store and post office. The United States Core of Engineers tore down the remaining building in 1931 when the government was more concerned about keeping unemployed men working than preserving history." There was a disapproving note in Mike's tone at the final statement.

"Gibbs?" Dean asked, blinking smoke-reddened eyes. "As in William Gibbs?"

"That'd be the one," Mike said, surprised. "How'd you know?"

"I think I saw him," Dean admitted. "Well, his spirit anyway down in that well."

"Huh," Mike replied, puffing harder on his disappearing cigarette. "He founded Waldo, named it after his son. When his son was killed during a raid, he went a little crazy. Secluded himself from everyone, built some kind of crazy shrine around his son's grave and disappeared without a trace."

Dean smirked at the irony of Mike's statement and caught Sam's look. Sam was obviously trying not to laugh at Mike; the corners of his mouth twitched and he huffed once and looked away. "I don't think he got far," Dean stated lying back with a thud. He was feeling light-headed again, but he didn't feel bad. In fact, he was not hurting much at all.

"Sounds like it," Mike replied, nonplussed. "Okay boys, I'll be back as soon as I can." He crushed out his cigarette and left without as much as a backwards glance.

Dean lay there for a moment alternating between smirking and suppressed laughter. When he was relatively sure Mike was out of earshot, he cut loose with a belly laugh. "Dean? Are you okay?" Sam asked, concerned.

Dean looked up at Sam and burst out laughing at the look on Sam's face. "It's okay, Swee'pea," he joked. "It's all good."

"Shut up," Sam replied hotly. His glare turned to a dimpled grin before he started chuckling. "God, it stinks in here."

"Don't be such a wuss, Sammy," Dean chided, the sting of his response softened by giggling. "Dude, you stink," he added wrinkling his nose.

"So do you," Sam protested. "Hey, do you think that shrine has something to do with the replay hauntings?"

Dean appeared to be seriously contemplating the notion for a minute before dismissing it with a wave of his hand and observing, "I think Mike is a crazy old coot."

"That can happen when you seclude yourself from society and live out in the woods," Sam replied sagely. He chuckled and pointed at Dean. "He's you, in thirty years."

"That is so…true," Dean conceded with a laugh. "That is so true." His laugh slowly fizzled to a halt as he grew contemplative. "Sam?"

"Hmm?" Sam hummed through his nose.

"I'm sorry," Dean said, running a hand over his face.

"For what?" Sam asked, scrunching his face in confusion.

"For not getting there in time," Dean said, his green eyes searching Sam's face. "For distracting you."

Sam's demeanor shifted from carefree to serious in the space of a heartbeat. "In spite of what you think, you aren't responsible for everything that happens to me," Sam replied softly. "You aren't responsible for half the things you feel you are."

"Yeah, I am," Dean shot back. "You're my little brother."

Sam looked away and did not reply to Dean's sentiment. There were so many things he could say, had said in the past, but it did not really matter. They'd had this particular argument many times and he never won. He realized the four years Dean had on him made him a kid when Dean was a teenager, a teenager when Dean was an adult, and by the time he'd caught up to his big brother, he'd left for Stanford. They'd really only had two years to get used to hunting together as equal contributors. He would readily admit Dean was the better hunter, but he was the reining champion of research and it evened things out between them. Life had proven to Sam over and over again that even though Dean considered him a hunter in his own right now, he was always going to be the little brother.

"And you're my big brother," Sam replied at last, turning his gaze back to Dean.

"I'm not sorry for making that deal," Dean admitted, focusing his intense jade green eyes on his brother's hazel. "I know you don't want to hear that, but I'm not. I can't be."

"I told you Dean, I'll take care of it," Sam stated firmly. "I'll get you out of it, I swear."

"Don't swear," Dean said. "You know I can't help you. I won't risk it."

"I know," Sam replied softly, breaking eye contact with Dean.

Silence weighed heavy in the stick hut, nearly as thick and as pervasive as the green smoke still drifting in the air. Dean threw his arm back over his face. Sam allowed his mind to wander as the haze shifted and formed shapes around them, before he snorted. "Now who needs the buzz-kill beaten out of them?" he asked with a giggle.

Dean did not move his arm to look at Sam, but the trademark smirk appeared on his face. "You do still owe me one," he reminisced with a chuckle.

"I'm sure I owe you more than one," Sam replied, keeping his tone light and his statement deliberately vague. "I can think of five right off the top of my head."

"Dream on, Sammy," Dean responded, removing his arm to look at Sam again. "I'm not giving you five freebies. You'll have to work for those." He blew a raspberry and added, "Good luck."

Sam made a face at Dean. The brothers sat in silence again, but this time it was a comfortable silence broken by periods of chuckling. Sam wiped tears of laughter from his eyes and wrinkled his nose. The lingering smell of smoke was vaguely reminiscent. Unable to place the scent, he shrugged his shoulders. Dean shot him a questioning look and Sam noticed, as if for the first time, how red Dean's face and arms were.

He picked up the first clay jar and held it out to Dean. "You want to put the aloe on yourself and I'll get the cuts on your back?"

"Don't bother," Dean replied with a small puff of air. "I don't think I need it. I'm feeling pretty good actually."

Sam narrowed his eyes and racked his brain. He knew he recognized the odor and it was driving him crazy. Finally it came to him. At Stanford Jess had a friend that smelled like the cigarette Mike had been smoking: Chas - the stoner - Townsend. "Dean," Sam said in a hushed whisper. "I think Mike was smoking pot."

"Really?" Dean replied with raised eyebrows. "Huh." He closed his eyes, lacking the ambition for any further response. The smell in here was getting overpowering. After a bit, Sam started laughing again. "What's so funny?" Dean asked, cracking one eye open again.

"Stoned Mountain Mike is driving your car," Sam laughed.

Dean closed his eye and groaned, "Well hell."

…………………………………………………………..**Supernatural**…………………………………………………………

AN: Well, I have a bit of the empty nest syndrome. My sister and my nephews have left and gone home.

The bad news is: I miss 'em.

The good news is: I should be back to posting more regularly again.

Wow, there really is a silver lining in every cloud.


	7. Chapter 7

**Where's Waldo?**

**Disclaimer: **I'm up to nine converts to Supernatural fandom, but they STILL aren't offering shares based on recruits so I don't own any of it. sniff

**Beta'd: **By Wysawyg who offers not only great suggestions, but catches the heck out of homophone and comma abuse. Thanks for taking time out of YOUR writing to edit mine!!

**Special Note: **To SupernaturalSammy67, the scenes you requested were already in the works, but I did beef them up a bit since you asked so nice.

**Warning: **Sorry folks, fairly long chapter ahead. I got a little long-winded. I wanted to get to a certain point and it took a bit to get us there. BG.

…………………………………………………………**Chapter 7…**……………………………………………………..

_Sam narrowed his eyes and racked his brain. He knew he recognized the odor and it was driving him crazy. Finally it came to him. At Stanford Jess had a friend that smelled like the cigarette Mike had been smoking: Chas - the stoner - Townsend. "Dean," Sam said in a hushed whisper. "I think Mike was smoking pot."_

"_Really?" Dean replied with raised eyebrows. "Huh." He closed his eyes, lacking the ambition for any further response. The smell in here was getting overpowering. After a bit, Sam started laughing again. "What's so funny?" Dean asked, cracking one eye open again. _

"_Stoned Mountain Mike is driving your car," Sam laughed._

_Dean closed his eye and groaned, "Well hell."_

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam snoozed lightly near the doorway to Mike's hut. He'd managed to get the aloe and the ointment cream applied to Dean's face, arms and back before crashing. He had all intentions of checking the cuts on his own arm and the snake bite, but his exhausted body had had other ideas and he had fallen asleep. The only noise other than Dean's light wheezing was a large, black fly buzzing lazily through the one room abode.

When the canvas flap was pulled to the side, Sam snapped awake, his Beretta drawn. Behind him, he heard Dean move as well. "Easy boys, it's me," Mike said, throwing his arms up in a protective stance. "Just got back with your car."

"Thanks," Sam replied, flipping the safety back on and tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans. He turned to look at Dean just in time to see him ease himself back into a supine position.

"Did she miss me?" Dean asked.

"I'm sure she did," Mike replied with a grin through his grizzly beard. "She's as dusty as heck and she sure looked lonely down there."

"You drove her nice and gentle?" Dean asked sternly.

"Course, be afraid not to," Mike replied. He walked into the hut and tossed the keys to Sam on the way by.

Sam caught the keys deftly in his right hand. "Dean, are you ready to head to town?" Sam asked, carefully avoiding the subject of the doctor.

Dean narrowed his eyes and appraised Sam's appearance. "Just some bleeding on your head?" Dean asked suspiciously. "That's it?"

Sam started to deny anything else was wrong, but one look at Dean's expression and he knew he would never get away with the lie. "It's nothing serious."

"Really, Sam?" Dean asked, awareness glinting in his moss green eyes. "Because if that's true? Then you look like crap."

"Nice, thanks," Sam replied sardonically. He slowly pried himself off the hard-packed ground and limped towards Dean. His ankle had stiffened considerably in the few hours he had been inactive. He caught the look on Dean's face and decided distraction was the best defense. He gathered the flashlight and confiscated the knife Dean had managed to get his hands on while Sam slept, shoving them both into the duffel bag.

"Hey," Dean protested. "I had that."

"And now I do," Sam stated with a raised eyebrow and a head nod. Dean sat up, reaching for the duffel bag and hissed in pain.

"Why don't you boys have something to eat before we head down to the car?" Mike asked, presenting the boys with a type of hot grain cereal he had obviously just whipped up on his makeshift sterno-burner stove.

Dean eyed the cereal and quipped, "There's no special ingredients in here, is there?" His stomach gurgled in anticipation of food. He really was hungry.

"Special?" Mike asked with a puzzled expression.

"Yeah, special. You know, like special brownies?" Dean asked, holding up the bowl.

Mike laughed. "Nah, I wouldn't waste it like that. You both were hurting before I left and I figured you'd actually get some rest if you were feeling better."

"We wouldn't have agreed to that," Sam piped in, his face wrinkled in disapproval.

"I figured as much," Mike replied good-naturedly. "Worked though, didn't it?"

Sam frowned, but didn't belabor the point. Obviously Mike had their best interests at heart even if Sam did not approve of his methods. He dug into his cereal with gusto when his stomach overpowered his reluctance to taste anything Mike had concocted.

"It's good," Dean said when Mike set down a mug next to him. Dean looked down into the cup and stated with a frown, "I said, no tea."

"It's more like coffee," Mike corrected. "Dried dandelion root." He placed a cup beside Sam before taking a seat on the hard ground with his own bowl of cereal.

"How far is it to the car?" Sam asked, swallowing a large mouthful of cereal.

"Less than a mile and it is mostly downhill to boot," Mike replied. He pointed his spoon at Dean and continued, "Should be able to get him there in less than an hour."

"I'm not going anywhere until Sam 'fesses up," Dean stated, his eyes sparking in defiance. "You may have slipped it past me last night, but I can tell something's wrong."

Sam flushed guiltily and spoke into his bowl of cereal. "I'm fine…"

"Don't," Dean warned him angrily. "Sam, don't lie to me."

Frustrated hazel met angry green and Sam caved. "It's possible that I've been up close and personal with the area fauna," he confessed.

"That dead cat was you, wasn't it?" Mike asked. "I was tracking it and found it under a bush near your car."

"Yeah," Sam replied. "But, I managed to walk away with only a few scratches on my arm."

"And your ankle?" Dean asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Uh, no," Sam replied hesitantly. "Actually, it's more like a snake bite."

"Damn it, Sam," Dean said hotly. "I'm not going anywhere until you let Mike take a look."

"We're an hour from the doctor," Sam disagreed. "It's nothing that can't wait until then."

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to agree with Dean on this one, kid," Mike interjected. Dean smirked and Sam tossed him a look of pure annoyance.

"Hey, you were more than happy when he agreed with you, earlier," Dean stated. "A snake bite can get infected if it isn't taken care of."

"Fine," Sam huffed. "As long as we still get going soon."

"Can you roll up or take off that long sleeved shirt?" Mike asked. "I'll take a look at that first. Don't think you're getting out of anything," he added at the smug look on Dean's face. "I'm going to check you over once more before we head out." 

Sam made a face at Dean, but quickly replaced it with a neutral look when Mike turned back to him. "Shirt?" Mike asked, pointing to Sam's arm.

"Yeah, okay," Sam replied. He unsnapped his outer shirt and removed it, folding it carefully before setting it down. He glared at Dean when he started laughing. "What?"

"OCD much?" Dean asked. "You're being awfully particular with a dirty, torn shirt there, little brother."

"Ha, ha, ha," Sam replied. He winced when Mike pulled up the sleeve of his t-shirt and poked at the cuts on his left arm.

"They don't look too bad," Mike observed. "Looks like you did a pretty good job cleaning them up."

"They're not very deep," Sam replied.

"That's surprising," Mike commented. "Those cats have big claws. Must have only been a glancing swipe." He released his hold on Sam's arm and moved to his right ankle. Sam's boot and sock were discarded next to Dean and Mike hiked up Sam's jeans to his knee before he could react.

Mike whistled and Dean leaned in closer to look, ignoring the tight pulling of bruises on his back. "That looks bad," Dean muttered quietly to Mike.

"Sam, I'm going to clean this up a bit, but you need the doc to take a close look at it when you get to town," Mike cautioned. He cleaned the wound, applied some home-made ointment cream and placed a light dressing on it within minutes. "Now you," Mike stated, turning to Dean.

Dean uncharacteristically offered no protest as Mike moved around to his back and examined the bruises. "You're wheezing a bit," Mike stated. "I'd say you definitely have some type of rib injury." Dean nodded, watching as Sam carefully pulled on his sock and boot. How the heck Sam had managed to hide the injury from him yesterday escaped him, but he was back on full alert now.

Sam pulled on his shirt and walked slowly behind Dean. He had to stoop to walk with the low ceiling and the limp slowed him further. By the time he maneuvered to Dean's back, Mike was finishing his cursory inspection. "If you can get some more aloe on that burn and cream on those cuts, we can go," Mike said.

"Got it," Sam replied, picking up the white cream. It smelled a little of lilac and Sam wondered what exactly Mike had mixed into it.

Mike collected the bowls and the empty mugs. He nodded to the brothers on his way out the door. "Holler if you need help getting out of here. I'll be outside checking on my mushrooms."

"Of course he grows mushrooms," Dean smirked. "That is one happy hermit." He bit back a groan when Sam hit a sore spot.

"They may not be that kind of mushroom," Sam replied. He handed Dean the jar of aloe and returned Dean's grin. "Okay, I'm sure they are that kind of mushroom."

"Hand me my shirt, will ya?" Dean asked. "What time is it, anyway?"

"I'm not really sure," Sam replied honestly, wiping his hands off on his jeans and pulling out his cell phone. "Oh man, it's already one-thirty." He tossed Dean his t-shirt and resisted the urge to help Dean as he struggled into it. He shoved Dean's folded coat along with his own into the duffel bag and returned with Dean's socks and boots.

Dean pulled on the first sock and boot easily. He winced as he slowly pulled the second sock over the purple and red swollen ankle. He sat, trying to muster the gumption to pull the boot over the enlarged limb when Sam broke in, "Dean, you're never going to get that boot on. Don't even try."

Dean was about to argue when Sam ripped the boot out of his grip and tucked it into the burgeoning duffel. "You take anything else away from me today, Sam, and I'll kick your ass," Dean warned.

"That'd be a trick," Sam teased. His expression grew serious and he stood as much as he could in the small space. He pulled the duffel over his right arm and reached down to help Dean to his feet.

"This is gonna suck," Dean said with a small groan. He gripped Sam's left arm tightly to remain upright and immediately loosened his grip when he felt Sam stiffen. "Sorry, Sammy."

"S'okay," Sam replied. "Let's go." He steadied Dean and together they moved towards the door.

They made slow progress out of the hut, both of them hunkered down and limping. Mike was standing right outside the door, his hand up shading his eyes. "Looks like we're in for a summer rain tonight. Better get a move on." He moved in towards the Winchesters and took his place on Dean's left side. "We'll stop every fifteen minutes, rest and drink some water. It's only going to get hotter for the next three hours."

"Great, it already feels pretty hot," Dean complained.

"Well, don't just stand there," Sam replied. "Let's get hopping."

Dean glared and slapped Sam on the chest his free hand. "Funny."

Sam chuckled and Mike pulled Dean's arm around his neck. His smaller stature made him a better leaning post than Sam. "I think we can be down to the car in forty-five minutes."

The brothers both nodded and the trio walked slowly through the thick grove of trees and headed downhill towards Waldo road.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Dean sat on a flat rock in the sun-dappled space under a very tall, old-growth tree. He sipped carefully from the re-filled canteen and tried to control his wheezing breath. He glanced over at Sam, hoping he had managed to hide his growing difficulties from his brother. Sam's concerned hazel eyes flicked over to him and he could tell that Sam knew. This was the last stop. According to Mike they should be able to make it to the car within about ten minutes from here. He breathed a small sigh and mentally prepared himself for another leg of the journey. He tuned into the conversation Sam and Mike were having just in time to hear Mike's reply.

"I can do better than that," Mike replied. "I can draw you a map to the site and if you give me some time, I can draw you pictures of the shrine. I hoped I could catch a ride with you boys to town. I'm going to pick up some provisions and have a bite to eat at Tubby's. I should have the drawings done by the time you are finished at doc's place."

"That'd be great, Mike," Sam replied with a dimpled grin. "Thanks."

"I'd take you there myself, but I ain't stepping foot inside the boundaries of that thing at night. You've seen some of those spirits, haven't ya?" Mike asked, rubbing a hand over his beard.

"Yeah, but there's more to it than just spirits," Sam said, his voice cracking slightly. If Mike noticed he made no mention of it, but Dean noticed.

"I'm ready to get going," Dean stated, screwing back on the lid of the canteen.

Sam and Mike stood and walked the short distance to Dean. Both of them grabbed an arm and hauled him to his feet. "We're almost there," Mike reassured them.

As promised, ten minutes later the Impala's black paint glinted in the afternoon sun despite the layer of dust covering her exterior. "Ah, baby," Dean said fondly, tapping the Impala on the roof. "I'm sorry for leaving you out here so long."

Sam smiled as he opened the passenger door and allowed Dean to climb in, shutting the door behind him. Admittedly, he was a little surprised when Dean didn't try to slide over to the driver's side. Unlocking the back door for Mike, Sam hobbled around to the driver's side and slid in behind the wheel. He sighed, relieved to be on the final step of getting his big brother to a doctor. He pulled the keys out of his pocket, slipped them into the ignition and took a great deal of satisfaction as the Impala roared to life. As he drove quickly down the road, great clouds of dust kicked up behind the car.

"We don't really have a lot of money for a doctor," Sam stated, glancing slide-long at Dean who was panting shallowly with his arms cradled around his ribs. He realized, belatedly, that their fake insurance or credit cards would not work because Mike already knew their true first names. "We don't have insurance and…"

"Don't sweat it," Mike interrupted, shifting noisily in the backseat. "Doc B doesn't charge much and he'll let you work something out. You don't have any of that _new _money, do you?"

"I, uh, I don't think so," Sam replied. "Why?"

"The government uses the computer chip in the metal strip of those new bills to track your whereabouts and what you buy," Mike explained. "But those state quarters are even worse. They're cursed."

Dean snorted and then groaned when the movement jolted his ribs. Sam frowned at Dean. "They're cursed?" Sam asked, managing to keep the laugh out of his voice.

"You mean to tell me you haven't heard about the curse on the state quarters?" Mike asked incredulously. "I would have thought smart boys like you would know all about it."

"Guess not," Sam responded with the lift of an eyebrow.

"It started with the New Hampshire quarter," Mike stated. "The face of the Old Man in the Mountain crumbled to dust in early May after the quarter was minted. There've been odd things happening with every one since then."

"Huh," Sam replied, unable to think of anything else to say. He looked over at Dean in the passenger seat. Dean was already asleep with his head resting on the window.

"He'll be fine," Mike said, making eye contact with Sam in the rearview mirror. "Some proper rest and fluids and he'll be back at 'em."

"I hope you're right," Sam replied. Unable to resist checking Dean again, he glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye. Dean's breathing was still shallow and even asleep he wore an expression of pain.

"I am right," Mike assured him. "Turn here." Mike indicated a dirt road on the right several feet in front of them.

"I'd like to get him on a smoother road," Sam contradicted.

"It's not bad and the doc's clinic is on this road. It goes all the way to town and it'll save us a few miles," Mike explained.

Sam did not reply, but he turned on the side road all the same. It was a smooth gravel road and within minutes they were pulling to a stop in front of an old, two-story farmhouse. The moment Sam killed the engine, Dean's eyes popped open. "Where are we?" Dean asked, lifting his head off the glass and looking around.

"The doctor's," Sam replied, pocketing the keys. "I think," He added taking in the shabby house and the overgrown weeds in the front yard.

Mike was already out of the car and knocking on the front door. When the door opened a short, balding man with horn-rimmed glasses appeared. He was dressed in vibrant green Bermuda shorts with an equally bright orange t-shirt. "Ah, Sam, is the good doctor dressed like Aquaman?" Dean asked, his eyes narrowed attempting to bring things into focus.

Sam laughed. "I think so." He slid out of the car and walked around to the passenger side as the other men approached the Impala. As Mike reached for the passenger side door handle, Sam stepped in front of the door. "I got it," he said.

Mike nodded and turned back towards the doctor while Sam opened the passenger door. He reached inside, but Dean batted his hand away. Dean shouldered his way out of the car and stood leaning against the side to catch his breath. "I'm ready," he wheezed, after a pause.

"Take him directly into the exam room, Mike," the doctor boomed, his deep voice in direct contrast with his small frame.

"Gotcha, Doc B," Mike replied. "Let's get you boys inside," he said, taking up his spot beside Dean.

It was slow going, even the short distance from the Impala to the front porch. The steps into the house were the most difficult to navigate with the three of them on the narrow stairway together. Realizing Sam would not surrender his place at his brother's side, Mike stepped out of the way. On the third attempt, Sam hefted Dean onto the porch and bodily through the door.

"To the left, to the left," Mike called out from behind them.

Sam steered Dean into the small exam room on his left and lowered him none too gently onto the hard exam cot. "Oof," Dean said as the air was forced from his lungs.

"Sorry," Sam apologized. He swung Dean's legs onto the table, forcing him to lie down. Dean propped himself up on his elbows and jutted his chin at the doctor when he walked in.

"Mike tells me you took a tumble into the old Waldo well," Doctor Bailey stated, pushing his glasses further up his nose. He pulled a short, rolling stool from under the table and sat down. He turned to Sam and gave him an appraising look. "Son, there's a shower third door on the right. I suggest you take advantage of it."

Sam's faced turned a deep plum color as he blushed with embarrassment. "Yessir," he mumbled. He fumbled with the door handle and beat it out the door.

Dean chuckled lightly until Doctor Bailey turned his kindly gaze back to him and stated, "Now, let's get down to brass tacks. What kind of injuries did you manage to inflict on yourself?"

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Sam pushed still damp bangs out of his eyes and examined the map Mike had left for him while he was showering. He had to admit, he felt better after cleaning up and the fresh set of clothes went a long way towards improving his personal aroma. He smirked and tapped the map with his finger. It would not be too difficult to find the shrine, but the path to it would not be easy. A suspension foot bridge over the river and rugged terrain stood between them and their destination.

Exchanging the map for the detailed picture of the shrine, Sam was impressed with Mike's drawing ability. He had barely a moment to look at it before Doctor Bailey emerged from the exam room. "He has three cracked ribs, a moderate concussion and bruised kidneys," he remarked without preamble. "There may be a bit of renal bleeding, but I have him on intravenous fluids. That combined with some actual rest should make him as right as rain before you know it."

Sam felt an eyebrow creeping up towards his hairline and he squashed a snort. "He's resting? What about his ankle?"

"Ah yes, the ankle," Doctor Bailey replied, running a hand through his thin hair. "Nothing's broken, but I suspect there could be torn ligaments. It's difficult to tell with the swelling."

"But, he is resting?" Sam asked, carefully folding the map and the sketch of the shrine. He stuffed them in his back pocket as he stood.

"Well, no," Doctor Bailey admitted, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "You see, the only room I have for patients to sleep in is down the hall and I'll need some assistance getting him there."

"No problem," Sam replied, shouldering the laptop messenger bag and walking towards the room. When the doctor did not enter the room or move out of his way, Sam asked, "Is there something else?"

"Yes, it seems your brother is a bit – concerned, with your well-being," Doctor Bailey said, releasing a sigh of long suffering. "He refuses to be moved or take any medication until he's sure I've looked at you."

Sam frowned with frustration and shouldered past the doctor into the exam room. "Dean, stop being stubborn and let's get you to bed."

Dean blinked lazily at Sam. "What's the matter, Sammy? You seem a little…"

"Twitterpated?" Doctor Bailey supplied helpfully. The sudden image of a gangly limbed Sam skidding about on the ice popped into Dean's head and he chortled lightly.

Sam whirled abruptly to face the doctor. "I thought you said he refused medication?" he asked in a harsh whisper.

"He did," Doctor Bailey replied congenially. "I slipped a Mickey Finn into his I.V. when he wasn't looking. Sometimes the doctor knows best."

"I'm not going anywhere, Sam," Dean chirped. "Not until you let Aquadoc take a look at you too."

Sam sighed, what was it about the people in this area and drugging others without their knowledge? "Come on, Dean," he said. "I'll let him look after we get you to bed."

"I'm not that out of it," Dean replied with a frown. "No offense, but I want to see for myself that you've let the doctor take a look at you."

"He actually became more fixated on it after I gave him the pain reliever," Doctor Bailey commented. "Quite unusual."

"That's not really helping," Sam muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "How long do you think we have until he's out for the count?"

"Based on physiological strength or sheer cussedness?" the doctor asked, "Because he seems to be amply supplied with both."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, how about we get you moved and I have the doctor take a look in the other room?"

"Fine," Dean replied, struggling to sit up. Sam wrapped his good arm around Dean's upper back and helped him up.

"Can you get him by yourself?" Doctor Bailey asked. "I'll gather a few supplies and meet you down there."

"Yeah, we're good," Sam replied with a grunt as he helped Dean stand and supported most of his weight. "Where is it?"

"Second door on the right," the doctor replied, handing him the I.V. bag. "There're hooks by the bed for this. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Right," Sam replied. He staggered out the door, big brother in tow and managed the few steps to the next room. Dean was not as drugged as he initially assumed and he hopped beside Sam at a steady pace.

"A real bed," Dean sighed contentedly as he sank into the mattress. He crossed his arms behind his head and gazed up at Sam. "You're tall," he remarked.

"Mm-hmm," Sam replied, finding the hook and hanging the I.V. bag. He set the laptop down next to the bedside table. "And you're stoned. Again."

"Nah, just less," Dean replied.

"Less what?" Sam asked, scrunching his brow. He sat down on the opposite bed, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

"Just less," Dean replied as if that explained it all. Sam took a good look at Dean and realized the description was apt. He still had an intense expression on his face and he looked ready to spring into action, just less so.

The door squeaked as Doctor Bailey entered. His arms were full of supplies and he dropped several small items on the floor as he walked closer to the brothers and deposited the lot on the small bedside table. "Let's see it," he said without fanfare, kneeling down by Sam.

Sam held out his leg and tried not to wince when Doctor Bailey started his ministrations. Doctor Bailey pushed up his glasses and quickly set to work cleaning the bite on Sam's ankle. He efficiently cleaned the wound and applied a fresh dressing, moving on to the cuts on Sam's arm no longer hidden by a long-sleeved shirt. When he pulled out a syringe and filled it, Sam held up a hand in protest. "Whoa, no."

Doctor Bailey used an alcohol wipe to clean a spot on Sam's arm. "It's a strong antibiotic, nothing else." He grinned widely at Sam and while Sam debated whether or not to trust the doctor, he took advantage of Sam's hesitation and drove the needle home. "There you go, all finished. It's a good thing you both came to see me. His condition needs monitoring for a couple of days and that bite was on the verge of becoming something pretty serious."

"But, he's good?" Dean piped up, his eyelids drooping.

"Sure is," Doctor Bailey replied. "You can get some sleep now."

Dean made eye contact with Sam who nodded. Dean visibly relaxed and settled back into the pillows.

Doctor Bailey stood with cracking knees. "Don't ever get old, son," the doctor stated tapping Sam lightly on the leg. "It's not fun."

"I don't think that's going to be an issue," Sam muttered under his breath.

"What?" Doctor Bailey asked, looking over at Sam. He was busy throwing away package wrappers.

"I said, thank you," Sam replied. He pulled the diagram of the shrine out of his back pocket, turned in the bed so his legs were stretched out in front of him and started to examine the picture. Some of the symbols looked familiar and once the doctor left, he'd get on the computer to begin researching.

Doctor Bailey puttered around for a bit longer, before heading out the door. "Let me know when he wakes and I'll give him a stronger painkiller. Try to get more rest," he lectured, looking over to the sleeping Dean. "It looks as if you both need it."

Sam nodded politely, but the moment the door clicked shut, he pulled out his computer and booted it up. He didn't know what William Gibbs had created out there in the woods, but whatever it was, it needed to be stopped.

He tapped the keys lightly, trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to disturb Dean. He hated when Dean was hurting and he wished they could forget about the replay hauntings in the woods. In fact, he wished they could forget all about their obligations and responsibilities for awhile. He understood Dean's feelings so much better now, when he was buckling under the weight of the burden he carried. Sam wanted to let everything go, especially with the looming year ahead promising demons, pain and if Sam could not stop it, a trip into hell - because if that's what it took to save his big brother – he could do no less.

Shrugging off the melancholy feelings, Sam looked over at Dean again. Dean appeared to be resting peacefully for the first time in two days. He stopped typing and took in the nearly perfect moment. For this one small snippet of time, they were safe and they were relatively okay and that made everything all right in Sam's book.

With a sigh, Sam hijacked the doctor's wireless connection. He hoped he could assemble the pieces of the puzzle into a picture they could use to stop the replay hauntings in the extinct town of Waldo.

…………………………………………………….………**Supernatural**………………………………………………………

As always – Feedback Welcome!

AN: This would be why the lawyers at work caution us against putting anything in writing. Here it is Thursday and it took me six days to get out another chapter. )c:

Let's leave it at, I'll TRY to get out the chapters more than once a week. Sorry!

On a side note: My mother sent me an email at work on Tuesday titled: TraSan. I remembered then, that at her insistence, I had given her the link to my page when they were visiting in March. I had cautioned mom at that time that the stories were not her usual cup of tea. They were about a television show dealing with ghosts, demons and supernatural stuff (and she doesn't like to watch that sort of thing). I honestly never expected her to pop over to my page and read anything. When her email landed, I picked up the phone and called her.

Me: "So, what'd you think?"

Mom: "I loved it."

Me: "You're supposed to say that, you're my mom."

Mom: "Well…"

Me: "Well, what? It's okay; I can always use some constructive feedback."

Mom: "I can see you in some of it."

Me: "I'm sure. It's very difficult to keep yourself out of your writing entirely. What in particular?"

Mom: "One of the brothers…Dean."

Me: "Why? Because he can be a little bossy or because he's sarcastic?"

Mom: "I'm surprised that you admit that."

Me: "What? That I'm bossy or that I'm sarcastic? Mom, I'm the oldest. Of course, I'm bossy."

The funny part is really when I relayed the story to my husband.

Me: "So I asked her, what in particular?"

And my darling husband, who has read NONE of my stories, replied: "It was Dean, right? 'Cause he's bossy AND a smart ass."

Gotta love him. Jerk.

Please note: It was not Dean they were comparing me to precisely. It was his MOUTH. LOL.

Needless to say, mom, if you're reading this: Um…there's some bad language (nothing worse than the show) and themes you may not approve of. (c;

And to the rest of you who don't know me? I hope Dean always sounds like Dean and Sam always sounds like Sam. BG.


	8. Chapter 8

**Where's Waldo?**

**Disclaimer: ** If I made any money off this, I'd owe Heather and Carocali a boat load of commission, so…whew!

**Beta'd: **By the talented Ms. Wysawyg. Big thank you for taking time out of writing your own fabulous stories to edit mine…thanks!!

See, Heather? I did listen. So there! (c:

……..………………….……………………………**Chapter 8**………………………………………………………

_Shrugging off the melancholy feelings, Sam looked over at Dean again. Dean appeared to be resting peacefully for the first time in two days. He stopped typing and took in this nearly perfect moment. For this one small snippet of time, they were safe and they were relatively okay and that made everything all right in Sam's book._

_With a sigh, Sam hijacked the doctor's wireless connection and began to assemble the pieces of the puzzle into a picture they could use to stop the hauntings in the extinct town of Waldo._

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The smell was wrong. Not strongly antiseptic like a hospital or faintly musty like a motel room. The bed did feel like a motel, but the light hiss of air on his face made him think of a hospital again. He felt light-headed, disconnected, almost as he had when he was flying high on Mike's happy plant. He could not really tell where he was, but he could sense Sam nearby. Growing frustrated with the number of times he had awoken disoriented lately, he cracked one eye open.

Sam lay asleep on the other bed turned towards Dean. His hand rested on the open laptop sitting on the bedside table. Sam had fallen asleep doing research again. Dean smiled fondly at his little brother, the one constant in his life. He shifted uneasily in the bed trying to get more comfortable and in an instant, hazel eyes appeared beside him alert and concerned.

"Are you feeling okay?" Sam asked. Sam sat on the bed, his long form stretched across the short expanse between him and Dean.

"Yeah," Dean replied, his voice rusty from disuse. Something in his tone must have given him away because Sam frowned, sprang to his feet and disappeared out the door. He returned moments later with someone who looked familiar. It only took Dean a heartbeat to recall Doctor Bailey. Doctor Bailey wore sandals, royal blue, shiny biker shorts and a tie-dye t-shirt with an AC/DC emblem. "Like your shirt," Dean commented hoarsely.

"Thanks," the doctor replied with a wide smile. "I picked it up from Hippie Dave. He has a stand along the highway during the summer months." Doctor Bailey pushed his horn-rimmed glasses further up his nose and bent down to get a closer look at Dean. Not that he had far to go, the doctor could not be taller than five foot seven.

Dean jerked away when Doctor Bailey placed a cold stethoscope on his chest. The doctor moved it several times, making little harrumphing noises. Dean smirked and waggled his eyebrows at Sam, who grinned wide.

"How's the pain?" Doctor Bailey asked finally. Sam rolled his eyes and huffed lightly. That was never the right question to ask Dean. Sam mouthed along with the patented Dean response.

"It's fine. I'm good," Dean replied, keeping his expression light. He knew Sam was watching him, waiting to catch him in a lie and he was not about to give Sam that opportunity.

"Let's get you sitting up so I can have you take some deep breaths," Doctor Bailey instructed.

Dean felt something pull tight across his face when the doctor helped him sit up. He reached up and tugged on it gently. "Leave it alone," Sam chastised him from the foot of the bed. He wanted to know what it was and he tugged again.

"Stop it," Doctor Bailey admonished, slapping Dean lightly on the hand. Dean glowered at the doctor. "You need the extra oxygen right now," Doctor Bailey added hastily. Dean dropped his hand and shot Sam a sheepish look. The slightly warmer stethoscope was placed on his back. "Breathe deeply and hold it," the doctor instructed.

Dean started to take a deep breath and hitched slightly when the pain hit. "Exhale," doctor Bailey instructed and Dean released the breath in a stuttering wheeze. With a gentle push, Doctor Bailey encouraged Dean to lie back down.

Doctor Bailey waved his hand indicating he wanted to exchange places with Sam in the small room. Sam moved up by Dean's head and sat down on the opposite bed. Dean caught the look in Sam's eyes and knew, in that instant, that Sam was already planning something he wouldn't like.

Dean threw his brother a questioning look and when Sam caught the gaze he looked towards the ankle Dr. Bailey was holding. _Gotcha, Sammy, _Dean thought. _What are you planning? _"Ow," Dean protested.

"Sorry, son," Doctor Bailey apologized. "The ankle looks better this morning."

"Morning?" Dean asked. He flicked his eyes over to his brother for confirmation, but Sam still avoided his gaze. The only response Dean received was a light in his eyes. "Hey!"

"Pupils are equal and reactive," the doctor observed. He held up a bag and peered at the contents. "Looks like the bleeding's stopped too." He replaced the bag in its hiding spot and tapped Dean on his good ankle. "All in all, you're doing much better."

Dean's face burned hot with embarrassment. "How long?"

"Two and a half days," Sam replied, finally meeting Dean's eyes. The look Dean had noticed earlier was gone. "You've been in and out of it since we got here."

"Mostly _out_ by the looks of it," Dean replied. He fidgeted until he was propped on his elbows. "Sam, make yourself scarce for a minute, okay?" Sam tilted his head in question, but stood up and grabbed the laptop on his way out. When the door clicked shut, he focused his attention on the doctor. "This thing?" he snapped, giving the cord to the bag a shake. "Comes out now."

Doctor Bailey startled at Dean's tone and turned to grab a small scissor out of his supply kit on the table. He wiped the smile from his face before turning back around to his patient. Dean may not be from around these parts, but he certainly had the disposition of the earthy mountain men in this area. Stubborn.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Sam paced the tiny waiting area. He had caught the knowing look in his brother's eye. Dean knew he was hiding something, Sam just hoped he did not realize what it was. He thought he had figured out what needed to be done to stop the replay hauntings and due to the remote location, he could do it alone without a lookout.

What he did not want to do was drag his injured brother out into the woods again. Dean had started to heal during the last two days and Sam did not want to jeopardize that. He had thought about ditching Dean and going up to the shrine while his brother had been sleeping, but he knew if Dean had woken up he would have left the clinic and gone in search of him. Sam felt he should be able to end the supernatural hold on the dead with a salt and burn, plus the disruption of key symbolic elements. He could…he would do that alone. The trick would be getting past his ever watchful big brother.

When Doctor Bailey appeared, muttering something about stubborn mules, Sam followed him into the exam room. He found the doctor rummaging through a small closet. "Can I go back in?" Sam asked. He wanted to feel Dean out and find out what he was thinking.

"What?" Doctor Bailey asked, spinning around. "Oh Sam, best give me another minute." He turned back to the closet and began noisily searching through the items inside. Several small items rolled out of the closet.

"He's not doing anything…uh, anything he shouldn't be, is he?" Sam asked, picking up a glass jar of tongue depressors, a stress ball and a green yo-yo.

"Well now, that's a loaded question," came Doctor Bailey's muffled reply. "Aha!" Doctor Bailey backed out of the closet carrying a large, black boot in one hand. "Thank you, Sam, just put those anywhere in the closet."

"Yeah, sure," Sam replied. He set the jar on the shelf. He debated where to put the stress ball and the yo-yo, opting to stuff them into a shoe box full of other odds and ends. He emerged from the closet only to find the doctor had already disappeared. He sighed deeply and went back to the small room to wait.

Sam was knee deep into continued research when the doctor returned. "You can go back now," he said waving a hand at Sam on his way through to his tiny office. "See if you can talk some sense into him."

Sam huffed. "I've never had any luck with that before," he mumbled, standing up to head back to the room.

"There's a first time for everything," Doctor Bailey called over his shoulder.

Sam did a double-take, amazed the doctor had heard him. He shook his head, grabbed the laptop and quickly went back to the bedroom. He found Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, slowly pulling on his mocha Henley. "What do you think you're doing?" Sam boomed with more of an edge to his tone than he intended.

Dean looked over towards Sam, his arm only part-way through the Henley. "Dangerous tone to take with me, Sammy, when I'm already pissed," he stated, his voice calm.

Sam walked cautiously into the room and sat down on the opposite bed. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Sam, I know the look. You're planning something," Dean replied, pushing his arms through the sleeves. "And by the amount of guilt on your face, I'd say it is something you know I won't like. You know…like leaving me here and going off on your own."

Sam looked away to gather his thoughts for a response. When he looked back, Dean's angry green eyes were flashing. "I, uh, I thought," he fumbled. He stopped trying to explain his reasoning when Dean's eyebrows climbed so high they were nearly lost in his hairline. "What did Doctor Bailey say?"

"You know how doctors are," Dean replied dismissively. "So, you've got it figured out?"

"I think so," Sam replied. "And unfortunately, I think it needs to be done on either the twenty-third or the seventh day of the month. So, either we do it tomorrow or we wait another two weeks."

"Right, so we go tomorrow," Dean agreed.

"No, Dean, it's not going to be easy to get to the shrine and to release the spirits, it has to be done between midnight and three a.m. while they are active. It…" Sam explained.

"Sam," Dean interrupted. "There's nothing to discuss. I'm going with you." He tossed his pillow at Sam and grunted when his ribs ached. "Give it up now. You and I both know how this is going to go down." Dean ticked them off on his fingers. "You'll give me a list of reasons I shouldn't go. I'll blow you off. You'll sulk and I'll gloat. Why don't we skip all that and fast forward to you explaining what we need to do."

"I don't sulk," Sam protested with a frown. He wiped the expression off his face at the look of 'I told you so' from Dean and sighed loudly. "Okay, I'll fill you in, if you lie down and keep your ankle up." Dean shot him a warning glare. "Come on, Dean, work with me here. You just woke up, really woke up for the first time in two days. Did you even let the doctor give you any pain medication when he was in here?"

Dean mumbled something that Sam couldn't quite catch, but that he assumed was a no. Without a word, Sam stood up and left the room. "Well that didn't go well," Dean remarked to the empty room.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Dean swung his legs onto the bed and obediently rested his injured ankle on the pillow by his feet. His back still ached and taking a deep breath was nigh impossible, but he was leaving with Sam tonight. There was no way Sam could talk him into lying around while he went back to face the spirits up there alone. He was drifting off to sleep again when Sam entered the room with Doctor Bailey in tow.

"You're ganging up on me?" Dean asked with a smirk. Sam shot him a disapproving look as he sat down on the opposite bed.

"Not at all," Doctor Bailey replied with a smile. "Sam tells me you boys are leaving after dinner tonight. That means I expect you to eat a little something this morning and I'll get you a prescription for Percocet. In the meantime, I'll give you a lighter med than the one you've had the last two days. It'll allow you to get some sleep, but it shouldn't knock you out."

"I'm good, really," Dean stated. He squirmed to the edge of the bed when Doctor Bailey advanced with a syringe in hand.

Doctor Bailey smiled congenially. "It really is the light stuff, Dean," he reassured him. "Sam made me promise. I wanted to give you the stronger meds and keep you here another day. It seems your brother is on your side."

"I've got your back," Sam said with a head nod in Dean's direction. "Trust me."

"Always," Dean replied with a lop-sided grin.

As it happened, the purported 'light stuff' still knocked him for a loop. He had had barely enough time to eat breakfast and listen as Sam explained the history of Waldo and William Gibbs before drifting off to sleep. When he awoke, he immediately looked for Sam and was relieved to find him catching a little sleep himself.

Sam's eyes popped open when he rolled to his side. Sam glanced at his watch and said, "It's ten-thirty. I've already packed the Impala, filled your prescription and settled up with Doctor Bailey, so we're good to go. Are you hungry?"

"Drive through?" Dean suggested. He tried to sit up, but failed when his ribs protested loudly. On the second attempt he tried to casually sit up and hope Sam had not noticed. The look on Sam's face was clear – he had.

"Do you remember what the town looked like when we drove through before?" Sam asked, ignoring Dean's failed attempt to sit up. He knew no matter what he said, Dean was going and pointing out a weakness would only make Dean try harder to hide it. "Nothing's open. I did grab us a couple sandwiches at the market deli earlier and the staple to any good salt and burn." He held up a newly purchased thermos and waggled it in front of Dean.

Dean eyed the thermos with appreciation. "Real coffee? Dude, you rock." He grabbed the soft cast boot the doctor had brought in earlier and slid his leg in.

"You remember that," Sam replied, leaning forward to help Dean fasten the straps he was fumbling with on the boot.

"Why?" Dean asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"You can't drive with that thing on," Sam explained. He stood up and helped a scowling Dean to his feet. "Ready?"

"Let's go," Dean remarked. He stepped gingerly on the sore ankle and was pleasantly surprised to find it stiff more than sore. He wondered if it had healed that much in two days or if the drugs were better than the doctor had led him to believe.

It was slow going, but they made it to the car without incident. It took Dean three tries to get his leg into the car with the bulky boot on. He certainly would not be making any speedy exits. Sam slid into the driver's seat and started the car. "I hate to tell you this, but I think I missed some of your explanation earlier," Dean confessed. He really did hate to tell Sam because now he'd have to suffer through the entire history as well as possible causes and solutions.

"I know," Sam replied, flashing Dean a grin. "You started snoring by the time I told you William was married to a Takelma woman."

"A who now?" Dean asked. He picked up the thermos that rested between them and unscrewed the lid. He took a huge whiff of the coffee aroma and sighed contentedly. "I can taste it already."

"Takelma. They were the Native Americans living here at the time William Gibbs moved into Oregon from California," Sam explained. "Waldo was their son."

"Wasn't he killed in a raid?" Dean asked, thinking back over fuzzy memories.

"Yeah," Sam replied, turning onto Waldo road. "William buried him and built the shrine Mike told us about. He combined Takelma, Chinese Buddhist and Catholic symbolism in the monument to his son and I think it is that particular mix that caused this whole thing."

"You lost me," Dean admitted. He unwrapped one of the sandwiches and took a large bite.

"The Takelma buried artifacts the dead would need on their journey to the spirit world. They would break the items before placing them in the grave, rendering them useless to the living. They were also buried with their heads pointed south to follow the river to the ocean which they believed was the beginning and end of all life. Now the Chinese buried the dead with their heads pointed out of the home for the same type of reason. So they would not be tempted to stay in the home with their loved ones, but head on to another plane. Unfortunately, some of the dead remain in limbo unable to move on, due in part to the belief that the dead face many obstacles sometimes, in the form of trials, torment and torture for their sins. I think that's what happened here."

"Why?" Dean replied. "Most of the spirits we've seen aren't Chinese."

"No," Sam said. "The statues at the four corners of seven circles of stone are Chinese, but placed in the location of north, south, east and west symbolizing earth, air, fire and water. It combines pagan, Chinese, Takelma and Catholic belief. The cross on Waldo's monument is the same Coptic cross that Sue Ann Le Grange used to control the reaper. I think William put together elements from the different cultures in the area and ended up creating a spiritual vortex of some sort."

"He ended up trapped as well," Dean stated, recalling the rancher in the well. "So, he was simply living out the last few moments of his life. He wasn't really talking to me; it was just a freaky coincidence."

"Probably," Sam replied, pulling the car to a stop along side the road. "This is where we get out."

"There's still one thing I don't get," Dean said hesitantly. "Why…why did yours appear?"

"I don't know," Sam confessed quietly. He ran his thumb over the grooves in the ignition key, not looking at his brother. "It could be that what are really here are imprints. Vivid instant replays of the final moments and not the actual spirits."

"That's gotta be it," Dean reassured him, placing a hand on his little brother's shoulder.

"Yeah, maybe."

"Sam, look at me," Dean demanded. Sam slowly lifted his gaze to meet Dean's. Dean could see the emotions, the doubts swimming in his brother's eyes. This was part of the reason he'd never told Sam what the yellow-eyed demon had said to him in that graveyard. Sam was plagued with feelings of doubt and self-recrimination on a good day. "Sam, whatever you're thinking. It isn't true. You came back, all of you. I've seen it. I do see it."

"You don't know that for sure," Sam contradicted, gripping the keys tightly in his fist. "What if not all of my spirit came back or it came back, I don't know, damaged somehow?"

"Don't you think I'd notice if something was different about you?" Dean asked. He gently pried Sam's fingers open and removed the keys. There were deep marks in Sam's palm from the keys, but no cuts. Pocketing the keys, he scrunched down to make eye contact with Sam's downcast eyes. "You're the same pain in the ass little brother that you've always been."

"Thanks," Sam huffed.

"Don't mention it," Dean quipped, before changing the subject. "How far is it the shrine?"

"About a mile," Sam answered. "Mostly uphill and through some pretty rugged terrain. It isn't too late to wait…"

"I'm going," Dean interrupted, opening the door and swinging his legs out. He heard the driver's door slam shut and Sam appeared in front of him before he could pull himself out of the car. He reluctantly accepted Sam's help and allowed Sam to pull him from the car. He stood propped against the side of the car, wheezing lightly.

"Keys," Sam stated, holding out his hand.

"Nah, I don't think so," Dean said, placing a hand over the pocket that held the keys.

"I need in the trunk," Sam argued. "I'll give them back to you, if that'll make you feel better."

"Right back," Dean responded, placing the keys in Sam's open hand.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Sam said, walking around back to the trunk.

"I mean it, Sam," Dean stated firmly.

Sam's muffled response was lost behind the lid of the trunk, but Dean decided that he probably didn't want to know what Sam said anyway. Sam returned with the duffel bag over one shoulder and the rifle held in his hand. He dropped the keys into Dean's waiting palm, pulled a map out of his back pocket and opened it for Dean.

Dean squinted in the meager light from the waning moon until Sam shone a flashlight over it. "We're headed up this hill," Sam explained, pointing to the map and then to the area in front of them. "Once we hit the top, the going should be easier until we hit the suspension foot bridge."

"Sounds easy enough," Dean obfuscated. His ankle was already throbbing in the confines of the soft cast. He handed Sam back the map and subconsciously wrapped on arm around his ribs in support.

"Uh-huh," Sam replied, obviously not buying Dean's posturing. He folded the map and tucked it into his back pocket. "We have three and a half hours to finish this. We only have to wait two weeks if we miss this window, so if one of us needs to stop, we stop."

Dean rolled his eyes under the cover of darkness. There was no mistaking who Sam was referring to no matter how he couched it. "I won't hold us up, Sam," Dean remarked, snagging the flashlight from Sam's grasp before pushing past his brother. His defiant exit would have been more convincing if not for the pronounced limp.

"Dean! Dean!" Sam called. He stopped to pull another flashlight from the duffel and followed Dean into the thick manzanita bushes. He caught up to his brother easily, only to find him with his boot entangled in swee'pea vines. "Let me help," he stated, reaching down to pull away the vines.

"I got it," Dean snapped, attempting to pull his foot away. He hated the thought of being a liability to Sam.

"Just let me help," Sam insisted, tugging on the vines.

"I said, I've got it," Dean barked. He ripped the boot free and continued up the hill. As they climbed deeper into the trees, pine needles littered the ground and dead branches cracked under their feet. Crickets heralded their return to the forest and moments later a lone bat swooped low on the hunt for insects. The rich soil sprang beneath their feet, cushioning the impact, but making navigating the uneven terrain all the more difficult. Dean stumbled again and behind him, Sam made a harrumphing noise.

"That's it," Sam stated, leaving no room for argument. "Sit down on the log. It's time for a break." Dean threw his brother a death glare. "We're almost to the bridge," Sam continued softening tone.

"If you need to rest, we can," Dean wheezed, plopping down onto the log.

"Just for a minute," Sam replied, playing along. "I need to check the map." He set down the duffel, pulled out the map and made a pretense of examining it.

Dean caught Sam watching him surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye. He could see the indecision in Sam's eyes and wondered if he regretted not sneaking out of the clinic when he could and leaving him there. He knew his brother and there was no way Sam had not at least considered the possibility. Dean's chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. It was lucky for Sam he had not chosen that course of action. He would have been angry, although he would have gotten over it…eventually. "Are you done pretending to read that thing?" Dean asked, after he caught his breath.

Sam felt heat climb his neck at being found out. "It shouldn't be much further," Sam announced, folding the map and standing. He offered a hand to Dean and was surprised when he accepted.

"You gotta admit, Sam," Dean said with a wheeze. "This life? It's not boring."

"You know, I could go for a little boredom right about now," Sam responded, taking the lead. If he led, he could slow things down. Dean had been setting a pretty good pace in spite of his sprained ankle.

"Ah come on," Dean replied, panting. "And miss all this?" Sam stopped short and Dean nearly ran into him. "Sam, what the hell?"

"We're at the bridge," Sam explained. "It's definitely only wide enough for single file."

Dean peered around his gargantuan brother and stared down the hundred foot bridge. It creaked as it swayed slight in the breeze. "This sucks," he stated unnecessarily.

"But not boring," Sam quipped.

"Ha, ha," Dean replied.

The bridge swayed wildly as they slowly progressed down the length. Dean groaned when the swaying tossed him hard into the support ropes. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. Sam turned back to Dean.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, his hazel eyes reflecting concern even in the dim light. "We're more than half way there. Do you think you'll be okay?"

Dean panted hard, unable to answer right away. "Yeah," he replied, finally. "Ah, crap."

"What?"

Dean nodded to something behind Sam. Sam spun around to the sight of a man at the end of the bridge. He wore an odd combination of pioneer and Native American garb. A shell necklace adorned his neck and he carried a long knife in his hand. He shouted angrily at the brothers in a language neither understood. As he shouted, he raised the knife high.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Dean intoned.

"Dude, that's not funny," Sam muttered under his breath.

"Oh come on, it's a little funny," Dean insisted.

The man stopped shouting and brought the knife down in one swift motion. The bridge shook crazily as one of the support ropes fluttered free and whipped past Sam's face. As the man raised the knife again Sam said, "On second thought, you're right. This is a very bad thing."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Run."

Sam and Dean ran towards the man, Dean's boot clomping loudly on the wooden planks. As the man lowered the knife, Dean realized they would never make it in time. The surface underneath them shifted sharply to the left and both brothers hit the bridge with a hard thump. Dean grabbed frantically for something to hold onto as he slid further towards the edge, his legs dangling freely off the side.

Dean searched for his brother and found Sam hanging onto the rope binding the floor board slats together. His entire body was off the bridge and hung over the swift, dark river fifteen feet below. "Sam!" he shouted, before another rope was cut loose and both brothers plunged into the cold water.

TBC

………………………………………..………………**Supernatural**………………………………………………………

As always – Feedback Welcome and Appreciated!


	9. Chapter 9

**Where's Waldo?**

**Disclaimer: **They belong to Kripke and company. Don't believe me? Ask him, he'll tell you.

**Beta'd: **By the ever insightful Wysawyg, without whom the posting angst would be horrible. Thanks for acting as Chief of the POV Police. (c:

**Special Thanks: **To Heather, for continued professional (medical) advice and for whom this story of Dean whumpage was written. Thanks for proof-reading. Congrats again on your achievements!

**Extra Thanks: **To the nice readers who responded anonymously. Since I can't send you my thanks personally, this will have to do!

And to Charlie Girl 79 for giving this a once over and for explaining the "E ticket' ride statement you made after our unplanned dip in the river!

………………………………………………………..**Chapter 9**…………………………………………………………

_The man stopped shouting and brought the knife down in one swift motion. The bridge shook crazily as one of the support ropes fluttered free and whipped past Sam's face. As the man raised the knife again Sam said, "On second thought, you're right. This is a very bad thing."_

"_Sam?" _

"_Yeah?" _

"_Run."_

_Sam and Dean ran towards the man, Dean's boot clomping loudly on the wooden planks. As the man lowered the knife, Dean realized they would never make it in time. The surface underneath them shifted sharply to the left and both brothers hit the bridge with a hard thump. Dean grabbed frantically for something to hold onto. He slid further towards the edge, his legs dangling freely off the side. _

_Dean searched for his brother and found Sam hanging onto the rope binding the floor board slats together. His entire body was off the bridge and hung over the swift, dark river fifteen feet below. "Sam!" he shouted, before another rope was cut loose and both brothers plunged into the cold water._

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The cold water enveloped him, stealing his breath. It swirled and tossed him until he could no longer distinguish which direction was up. He stopped struggling and allowed the water to buoy him to the surface. Choking on a mouthful of water, he wiped moisture out of his eyes and tried vainly to catch a glimpse of his brother in the dark.

A strong current pulled on his legs and he was yanked under the surface of the water again. His back hit a large, submerged rock causing pain to radiate throughout his body, seemingly unfazed by the extreme cold or the added adrenaline rush of the 'E ticket' ride down Splash Mountain.

As the water pushed him faster and further downstream, he fought frantically against the sudden panic rising in his throat as the need to breathe became urgent. In a moment of sweet relief, he surfaced enough to draw a quick breath. Quickly stretching flat, he began swimming with the current diagonally to the shore. The extra weight of sodden clothes slowed his progress, forcing him further into the water and towards the icy fingers that pulled at him from all angles.

He nearly sobbed with relief when his fingers brushed the vegetation growing out from the cliff-side on the river bank. He grabbed the low hanging branches of a madrone tree. Pulling his upper torso out of the river, his feet found precarious purchase on slippery river stones. He searched the dark for his brother. "Dean!" he shouted. He strained his ears, listening for any sound of his brother fighting the strong current or shouting for him. The only sounds that reached his ears were the roaring of the river and his own ragged breathing. "Dean!"

Sam allowed his body to be pulled by the current towards a fallen tree lying partially across the river. His hands scraped the rough bark of the tree as the river tugged at him ferociously, trying to suck him under the log. Exerting strength he thought himself incapable of demonstrating after his fight with the river, he slowly hauled himself out of the water. He laid on the log, catching his breath, the waterlogged duffel clinging to his back like an engorged tick. "Dean?" he panted.

"Sam?"

Sam lifted his head off the log. _Had he really heard his brother's voice?_

"Sammy?"

It was louder this time, stronger. Sam was certain he had heard it now. "Dean?" He belly-crawled down the log, ignoring the bark and broken branches that scratched his stomach and sides. "Dean?" he called again. The dark and the rushing water made it nearly impossible to see or hear anything.

"Right here," Dean panted breathlessly. Sam peered over the edge and saw his brother hanging tightly to a naked branch on the downstream side of the log.

"It's going to be a bitch getting you out of the water," Sam remarked, his ill mood and frustration manifesting in cuss words. He tightened his grip on the dead tree with his legs and lowered his torso closer to Dean.

"Look at the bright side, Sam," Dean suggested between panting breaths.

"Oh yeah? What's the bright side, Dean?" Sam asked, his numb fingers holding tightly to Dean's Henley.

"We're on the right side of the river," Dean replied with a small laugh.

Sam raised an eyebrow, grabbed the waistband on Dean's jeans and hauled him bodily out of the river. "Try to keep that in mind when we're hiking up that hill," Sam retorted, craning around to point up the steep incline. He turned back to Dean and finished, "In wet underwear."

"Ah, man," Dean moaned.

Sam eyed his big brother with a critical eye. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing, but his previous injuries could account for that. Dean did not make an effort to sit up, but instead remained lying on the log, breathing shallowly, his legs still partially in the water. When he finally looked up, he remarked, "Quit staring, Sam. I'm not gonna die."

The sarcastic words, meant in jest, held stinging bite nonetheless. Sam brushed it off and responded in true Winchester form: as if nothing had been said at all. "That boot is going to make it difficult to walk up the log. I suggest we get back to the bank by army-crawling."

"Agreed." Dean replied simply.

They began the arduous journey up the bumpy log to the sharp cliff at the river's edge. Sam squinted into the darkness, hoping to catch sight of a way up the side that didn't involve climbing. Dean could not possibly climb hand over hand with his ribs. He caught a flash of movement to his right and strained to see what it could be.

A deer stood silently at the side of the river. The stag's ears perked and alert to any danger before he slowly lowered his head to the water to drink. Sam stopped moving to watch the buck. When it finished drinking, it looked around cautiously before darting back up the hill. Sam could make out the vague outline of a narrow path near the vicinity of the now absent deer.

"Sam, what the…?" Dean asked when he bumped against Sam. "Why aren't you moving?"

Sam twisted his upper body enough to look his brother in the face. "I think I just found a way up the hill," he remarked, surprised Dean had not noticed the deer. That meant he was too busy simply trying to pull himself along the log to pay attention to his surroundings. Dean must be really struggling.

"Can't wait," Dean replied sardonically. He barely restrained himself from jumping off the log to follow Sam when his little brother splashed into the water without warning.

"Stay there for a sec," Sam called out over his shoulder, pulling himself upstream using tree branches, thick underbrush and the ubiquitous swee'pea as hand-holds. Loud splashing noises alerted him to Dean's mutinous behavior. "Stubborn jackass," Sam muttered, as his feet found solid ground for the first time since their impromptu swimming excursion began. He carefully turned around, only to find Dean had nearly caught up to him. He cursed a blue streak under his breath and held out his hand for his brother. "Can't you ever do what I ask?"

"You didn't ask," Dean defended through the loop hole in Sam's argument. "You told me to stay there for a second and I did." Dean graced Sam with the cocky grin he saved for victorious moments.

Sam glared at Dean before huffing in defeat. He slid the sodden duffel off his shoulders, crouched down next to the sack and stated, "I lost the rifle." He rummaged through the contents searching for salvageable items. "The salt tin lid stayed on, so that's good." He pulled out a lighter and flicked it. The yellow-blue flame burned brightly for a few moments. "Lighter works," he commented. He pulled out his Beretta and examined it as well as he could in the meager light. "Not sure about my gun." He pulled out the spare flashlight and tried turning it on. Nothing. He hit it against his palm several times and tried again. Still nothing. "Flashlight's dead." Sam tossed it angrily back into the duffel and slipped the bag back over his shoulders, before standing up.

"It's okay," Dean replied reassuringly. "Let's just get up this hill and then we'll figure something out."

"Yeah, okay," Sam agreed. On one hand he wanted Dean to lead so he could keep an eye on his brother. On the other hand, he wanted to lead so Dean would not push himself as hard as he had earlier. He hesitated just long enough that the decision was made for him as his big brother pushed past him and hobbled up the steep incline. At least he seemed to be setting a more realistic pace than he had before.

Sam's wet jeans and socks squished with every step. The soggy denim hugged his legs in a clammy embrace. "Once we get up the hill, we should be pretty close to Waldo's grave and the shrine," Sam stated. Dean grunted in response and Sam wondered if he lacked the breath for anything more. He noticed Dean had one arm wrapped around his torso and the other grabbed the nearby underbrush as if to steady himself. "You know I got banged into the rocks pretty hard down there," Sam stated. "How'd you fair?"

"Not now, Sam," Dean panted.

Sam shook his head. That was Dean-speak for, 'I got the crap knocked out of me, but I'm not going to admit to anything right now.' He trudged behind Dean, keeping a sharp lookout for any signs of the spirit of Waldo. The thought of the spirit returning and striking at an injured Dean propelled Sam into motion. He gently pushed past his brother to take the lead. "I'm going to scope out the area," he said on his way by.

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Dean muttered something under his breath and shuffled after Sam. His feet dragged along the narrow trail and he stumbled. The rocky motion jostled his bruised ribs and he stifled a groan. Sam glanced back at him and he shot him a reassuring grin. Sam's hovering was going to be the death of him. It forced him to consider his every reaction and one slip up would mean Sam would side-line him. Not that he was able to get away with sneaking injuries past Sam on a good day, but usually they'd both been knocked around. However, because he was the only one really hurt, Sam was on high alert.

Sam disappeared around the switchback and Dean took advantage of the temporary separation. He stopped, bent over and placed his hands on his knees. He took a few deep, gulping breaths before moving up the trail again. The water-logged soft cast weighed him down and caused his foot to slide in the boot. He was tempted to take it off and walk in just his socks, but he knew that would be a mistake.

Sam reappeared on the trail in front of him so he quickened his pace. Apparently, he was taking too long and Sam was concerned. "What?" he asked as he approached closer to his little brother.

"Nothing," Sam replied, flipping his gaze from Dean back up the path. "It's only a little further."

Dean nodded and wiped the fine sheen of sweat from his upper lip. How he was sweating wearing wet clothes on a cool night was beyond him. Sam hung back this time, keeping Dean within earshot and Dean tried, unsuccessfully to control his breathing. The high-pitched wheezing would not escape the notice of his brother.

They emerged at the top of the hill into a thick forested grove. The tree tops blocked the meager moonlight and they were thrown into utter darkness. Sam picked up a bushy manzanita branch and pulled the lighter out of his pocket. He lit the branch on fire and within moments the small twig branches were burning brightly. "Nice," Dean smirked.

Sam smiled back at him and headed east. "The shrine should be less than half a mile through the trees. I'll dig the grave," Sam stated. Dean shook his head. Sam was trying to fill the void with Winchester small talk. That was never a good sign.

"What aren't you telling me?" Dean asked, going straight to the heart of the matter.

Sam did not answer right away and for a moment Dean did not think he would. Sam squared his shoulders, stopped and turned to face him. "This is all just guess work, you know?" he replied, his hazel eyes glinting from the torch fire. "I mean, I think it'll work, but we've never really come across anything like this before and I…I'm just guessing here."

"I'll take a guess of yours over other people's facts any day," Dean replied, clapping Sam on the shoulder.

Sam smiled, a flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks from the compliment. "I'll need you to keep an eye out for Waldo," Sam said, turning back around. "I don't think he wants us here."

"Yeah, I kind of got that impression myself when he came out of hiding and dunked us in the river," Dean retorted.

Pine needles covered the forest floor in a thick, brown blanket choking out all but the hardiest of underbrush. The soft, springy ground crinkled under foot as the brothers moved through the woods. They continued in silence, the chirping of crickets the only sound that accompanied them. Wet clothes coupled with the cooler temperature at the higher elevation caused the brothers to shiver uncontrollably.

"We need a fire," Sam stuttered.

"What we need are dry clothes, a warm bed, a hot woman and a cold beer. We can settle for a fire," Dean replied and groaned softly as a shiver shook his frame. He nearly ran into Sam when his little brother stopped suddenly in front of him again. "Sam?"

"We're there," Sam answered, pointing to a spot in front of them. He held out the torch and shone it around the area. The monument, the seven concentric circles of rock and the statues all positioned exactly as Mike had drawn them.

"Let's do this thing," Dean remarked.

"Fire first," Sam contradicted. He handed Dean the torch and guided him to a large, flat rock. "Wait here," Sam said, then so as not to repeat his previous mistake added, "Until I get back."

"You know me, Sam," Dean replied. "I'm not good at waiting."

Sam chuckled. "I'll hurry." He tossed the duffel bag at Dean's feet and hurried off in search of wood.

Sam quickly gathered wood for a fire and returned to his brother. Depositing the wood at Dean's feet, he pulled a collapsible shovel from the duffel bag. He made quick work of digging a small hole and starting a low fire.

He pulled out a length of rope and cut it at about twenty feet. Tying it to the tree behind Dean he stretched it taut and tied it to another nearby tree. Recognizing Sam's intentions, Dean observed, "You're going to block my view with that thing."

"No, that's why I'm tying it to the side," Sam replied with a shake of his head.

"Right, there's no way Waldo will show up over there," Dean retorted, pointing to a spot on the other side of the line of rope.

"I'll leave you a window." Sam took off his outer shirt and slipped out of his shoes. When Dean did not make a move to get undressed, Sam asked, "Do you need some help?"

"No," Dean answered. "I can't believe you're doing this."

"Dean, you'll be hypothermic in minutes if you don't get out of those clothes. Besides, they'll dry faster on the line," Sam lectured. He tossed his shirt on line and slipped off his jeans, tossing them over as well. By the time he was putting his shoes back on, Dean was finally removing his jeans.

"Don't know how I let you talk me into this kind of stuff," Dean muttered under his breath. He looked up and tossed Sam the water-logged jeans. He smirked at the look of disgust on Sam's face when the jeans hit him. He replaced the boot and pulled the water swollen straps tight.

Sam crouched down next to Dean to look him in the eyes. The green eyes sparkled with awareness and if Sam was reading it correctly, amusement. "What are you doing?" Dean asked.

"Did you get tossed against any rocks in the river?" Sam asked.

"Kind of hard to avoid," Dean replied. "But I'm good."

"Where'd you get hit by the rocks?" Sam asked, his forehead furrowing in concern. He gripped the damp hem of Dean's shirt to check his back.

"Sam," Dean replied with a tone of long suffering, tugging his shirt down. "We've been over this already. I was hit by the rocks in the river."

"Funny, you're funny," Sam replied testily.

"All the girls say so," Dean replied with a grin. He chalked up a win when Sam released his shirt and turned his attention to the duffel bag with a huff.

"Waldo should be buried by the monument. We need to salt and burn the body, destroy the statues and remove at least some of the rocks in each of the seven circles," Sam reported into the duffel.

"I'll move rocks," Dean stated.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Sam contradicted, looking up from the duffel and glancing over his shoulder at Dean.

"Well, I don't recall asking your opinion," Dean snapped. He knew Sam was trying to watch out for him, but the pain in his back screamed for attention and his patience for being coddled was growing thin.

Thankfully, Sam ignored the outburst, at least in part. "You and I can work on it together after the salt and burn," he stated firmly. He took a quick swig out of the canteen before handing it to Dean.

Dean drank from the canteen, screwed the lid on and set it down. He was not happy about playing lookout while Sam dug the grave. On the other hand, it was hard, dirty work and lacking in excitement. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

"If you see anything, holler," Sam stated, grabbing the shovel and heading for the center monument. The epicenter had to be the spot Waldo was buried. Relieved they were finally making progress on finishing this would-be werewolf hunt, Sam dug with enthusiasm into the soft ground. He looked up every few minutes to make sure Dean appeared okay before continuing. So far, Dean looked tired, but otherwise fine.

He worked quickly, hoping to get out of the grave before too much time elapsed. He still had no idea what had caused the replay of his death days earlier and he hoped they could get this over with before it had a chance to happen again. They were also drawing ever closer to the three a.m. deadline.

Time wore on and Dean fought to keep his eyes open. The crackling fire and his almost dry shirt warmed him, making it more difficult to fight off the allure of sleep. When his head bobbed, he snapped immediately awake, mentally chastising himself and cursing the days of inactivity that left him tired and lethargic.

Sam's brown mop barely poked out from the ground, the rest of him submerged in the grave. Even from this distance, Dean heard the distinctive clink of metal against wood when the shovel hit the ancient casket. He hobbled towards his brother, his muscles stiff from disuse.

After nearly two hours of digging, Sam pushed sweaty bangs out of his eyes and gave a sigh of relief when he hit the casket. He tossed the shovel onto the pile of dirt and crouched down in the tight quarters to grip the edge of the decaying coffin. He was lucky he had not fallen through the soft wood top.

Sam heard Dean's wheezing breath above him and knew his brother had joined him at the grave site. He pulled hard on the wood, taking satisfaction when it groaned and creaked before finally releasing its hold and opening quickly. The sudden lack of resistance caused Sam to wobble on the edge of the coffin, barely able to regain his balance.

"Ah, Sam," Dean said from above. Sam looked up to meet his brother's questioning gaze. "Where's Waldo?"

Before Sam could offer a reply, the sound of distant shouting could be heard. Both Winchesters looked in the direction of the sound and in an instant Sam jumped out of the grave and stood next to Dean. The spirit of Waldo stood to the south, a Native American woman to the west and William to the north. They were virtually surrounded.

TBC

…………………………………………………………...**Supernatural**……………………………………………………...

As always – Feedback welcome and appreciated.

AN: If you've never been white water rafting, I highly recommend it. It's a ton of fun. However, wear your life jacket and if you happen to find yourself suddenly launched out of the raft in the rapids (yep, been there, done that) point your feet downstream. That way, your feet hit the rocks (because you will hit the rocks) and your back and head won't. Theoretically. (c:


	10. Chapter 10

**Where's Waldo?**

**Disclaimer: **Not mine…obviously.

**Beta'd: **By the talented Ms. Wysawyg and her trusty sidekicks: wit and perspective! Thanks for helping me with the two lines I struggled with. So much better now. As usual, I had homework to finish after she beta'd so any remaining errors are mine and mine alone.

**Thank you: **To CrashNBurn for the opening line to this chapter. :c)

…………………………………………………………..**Chapter 10**………………………………………………………..

_Sam heard Dean's wheezing breath above him and knew his brother had joined him at the grave site. He pulled hard on the wood, taking satisfaction when it groaned and creaked before finally releasing its hold and opening quickly. The sudden lack of resistance caused Sam to wobble on the edge of the coffin, barely able to regain his balance._

"_Ah, Sam," Dean said from above. Sam looked up to meet his brother's questioning gaze. "Where's Waldo?"_

_Before Sam could offer a reply, the sound of distant shouting could be heard. Both Winchesters looked in the direction of the sound and in an instant Sam jumped out of the grave and stood next to Dean. The spirit of Waldo stood to the south, a Native American woman to the west and William to the north. They were virtually surrounded. _

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"Hey, Sam," Dean remarked with a smirk. "Looks like we found Waldo."

Sam rolled his eyes at his ever-the-smart-ass brother. "There aren't any bones to salt and burn. That means we need to disrupt the symbols and hope it's enough," Sam explained, hurriedly. As he spoke the spirits moved closer, but stopped, hovering just outside the rings of stone.

"No problem, Sam," Dean replied, his tone deceptively sincere. "Any suggestions on how we keep the Gibbs family from tearing us apart in the meantime?"

"I thought distraction was your specialty," Sam countered, flashing Dean a grin.

"It's about time you appreciated some of my finer talents," Dean replied with a smirk. He slapped Sam on the chest. "Get to it."

"You sure?" Sam asked. "Once I start disrupting the circles there's a good chance things are going to get hairy."

"Go!" Dean insisted. As Sam walked towards the outermost ring of stones, the spirit of William glided towards him, moving so quickly he seemed to disappear from his original spot and reappear in front of Sam in the space of a heartbeat.

"Hey!" Dean shouted, fishing a gun out of the duffel. "Did Lassie pull you out of the well or is that dog-faced thing your wife?" William took no notice of Dean, but reached out a hand towards Sam.

Sam, for his part, was not paying any attention to the spirits. He trusted Dean to keep an eye out for him while he broke the hold this place had on the dead. Seven stones out of each of the seven circles would equal the forty-nine days of mourning and prayer required for Chinese funerals: based on the significant use of numerology in the shrine that number seemed logical.

He had no sooner pushed the shovel into the soft ground than a cold hand pressed into his shoulder. Sam looked up into the face of William Gibbs and jumped backwards in surprise when a shot rang out seconds later and William disappeared. "Huh, the iron rounds seem to work," Dean observed matter-of-factly.

Sam turned to look back at Dean before nodding his head fractionally in understanding. Returning his attention to the task at hand he dug up the first seven rocks in rapid succession. In response Waldo began shouting again. Moving on to the second set of stones he stumbled as he moved quickly to avoid the knife point thrust in his face. Another blast from Dean's weapon signaled the disappearance of Waldo. "You might want to hurry this along a little, Sam," Dean suggested tongue in cheek from behind him.

"I'm working on it." Sam worked quickly, digging up the stones of the next three rings in rapid succession. He did not even look up when the third shot from Dean's weapon rent the air, but continued on to the three remaining rings of stone.

He stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother as he unearthed the final stone. His arms ached from all the digging he had done in the last few hours and he stood, leaning on the short-handled shovel for several seconds, catching his breath. "All that's left is the statues," Sam stated, turning to look at Dean. Dean stood at the ready, his green eyes sharp; his body tensed and prepared to take action. "I hope," Sam added.

Dean flicked his eyes in Sam's direction, before scanning the horizon again. "Any particular order we need to do this?"

"I don't think so," Sam replied. "If we're lucky the age of the monuments will make them easier to break."

"I've got the two over here," Dean said as he limped away before Sam could protest.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's stubbornness and ran for the nearest statue on his left. The wind that previously blew high enough to only tickle the tops of the trees, now rushed through the glade. Pine needles and dry leaves chased each other across the ground and the temperature dropped. Sam shivered as his still damp shirt and boxers chilled his skin.

Skidding to a stop at the first statue, his hands had scarcely touched the stone when he once again felt cold fingers on his shoulder. He spun on his heels and lifted his head to look at the spirit of Waldo. He did not have time to react before Waldo's grip tightened and he was flung up and backwards through the air. The hard landing knocked the air from his lungs and he gulped in air trying to catch his breath.

Sam searched frantically for the spirit, but Waldo had disappeared. Pushing himself to his feet, he was relieved to see Dean limping towards the nearby statue, unharmed. "Dean!" he called in warning. An unscheduled flight would do more than leave his brother out of breath. "Watch out for the spirits!"

The wind whipped his words away and he doubted Dean had heard his warning. He headed towards his brother when Dean inexplicably turned his head towards him and shouted over the wind, "Sam, look alive!" He raised his weapon and fired at something just over Sam's left shoulder.

Sam waved a thank you at his brother, shook his head and headed back for the statues on his side wondering why he had ever doubted Dean would still be on high alert. Grasping the statue for a second time, Sam swung it like a bat and hit it against an ancient pine tree. Fissures and cracks appeared in the miniature Golden Fishes sculpture. He swung again and the weather-worn stone crumbled upon impact with the tree.

A vibrant green dragonfly with iridescent wings flittered past Sam, flapping desperately against the wind flying towards the river. He frowned at the impossible sight before turning his attention back to the second statue.

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Dean turned away from Sam and shot a cursory glance at the first sculpture on his side. It vaguely resembled the legendary Gordian Knot and he wondered briefly if it held the same significance. Dismissing the wandering thought, he picked up the statue and grunted. It was far heavier than its appearance would suggest.

He struggled to carry the weighty knot of rock intending to smash it against the tree as he had seen Sam do. The rough granite cut into his fingers and the square base knocked into his chest as he walked. _Hurry up, Sammy, _he thought. _If I have to smash both of these, it's going to kill me._

Shouting in front of him tore Dean's attention back to the task at hand. Waldo stood in front of him, waving a knife in the air. The spirit shouted angrily at him and jabbed it several times in his direction. Dean's fingers itched for the weapon tucked into the waistband of his boxers. He had been pleasantly surprised to find the elastic strong enough to hold the heavy handgun, leaving him with both hands free to carry the sculpture. Now he would gladly trade a free hand for an armed one without a moment's hesitation.

Determined to finish the hauntings so they could finally leave the woods and enjoy the relative calm of the open road, Dean held the woven stone sculpture above his head and shouted back at Waldo. "What's the matter?" he taunted. "Don't like others playing with your toys?"

Waldo lunged for the sculpture, but Dean reacted quicker. He spun in a circle three times, gaining momentum on each turn and released the statue. He watched Waldo track the flight of the Eternity Knot with his eyes until it crash-landed against the side of a sturdy madrone.

The stone crumbled into pebbles and small pieces of granite hit the ground in a wave, rolled and scattered. Waldo seemed to be watching a small bird or large winged insect fly past and Dean took advantage of the distraction to race to the second statue, the heavy boot thumping loudly on the ground.

The wind grew in intensity and the sting of pine needles burned his bare skin. He lifted an arm to protect his eyes from the small projectiles and blindly stumbled the remaining feet to the sculpture. His fingers had no sooner touched the rough stone than Waldo shouted with renewed fervor and this time when he rushed Dean, Dean could not move quickly enough.

The force of impact caused Dean to fall sideways to the ground, air whooshing from his lungs as his damaged ribs sang in harmony. Cold, icy fingers wrapped around his throat before he could recover his breath. "Sam!" Dean choked out before the wind whisked it away. "Sam!"

Dean feebly batted at Waldo's hands, but his weak, uncoordinated movements had no effect on the death grip Waldo had on his neck. His eyes widened in unadulterated panic as his oxygen supply dwindled dangerously low. His ears popped and his arms lost all strength. He knew the horrible wheezing sounds were coming from him, but it no longer seemed to matter. He was surprised he had enough air to make any sound and in a way the whistling gasp was reassuring.

He kicked wildly with his legs in a last ditch effort to throw the spirit off of him and make an escape. The heavy, still water-logged boot rendered his right leg worthless and he could not generate enough action to have any effect. _I'm sorry, Sammy, _he thought. _You're going to be on your own sooner than I hoped. _Dean's vision grayed and narrowed until it went out.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

As Sam's second statue crumbled, he turned back towards Dean. His brother's prone form lay straddled by the spirit of Waldo. In the dark and from this distance Sam could not see exactly what was happening, but Dean did not appear to be conscious.

"Dean!" Sam shouted as he ran for his brother. When Waldo glared at Sam, he realized he did not have any way of getting Dean away from the spirit. His best chance lay in destroying the remaining statue. He abruptly changed directions and skirted around Dean and Waldo. The wind picked up force and slowed his progress, tossing branches at him and sending stinging dry dirt into his eyes.

Wiping watering eyes with the back of his hand, Sam grabbed the stone sculpture and threw it into a nearby tree. It exploded into many pieces, the shrapnel bouncing off the tree and back into Sam's face. The howling wind died immediately, the trees stilled and dancing leaves dropped to the ground. Sam's ears rang from the deafening silence until the crickets started chirping once more.

Whirling about, Sam ran towards his brother. Waldo had disappeared, but Dean lay absolutely still on the ground. Skidding to a stop, Sam dropped to his knees by his brother. "Dean!" Sam shouted too loudly, shaking his brother vigorously. Dean remained unresponsive. Sam lowered his ear to his brother's mouth and placed a hand on his chest. Dean was not breathing.

"No, no, no, no, no," Sam repeated in endless litany, sitting back on his heels. His father's voice boomed in his head. _Secure the site, Sam. _He reacted instinctively, glancing around, searching the grounds for the forgotten duffel and spotted it sitting by the sputtering fire.

Scrambling for the bag, he left small clouds of dust in his wake. He grabbed the duffel and made it back to Dean in record time. Depositing the bag, he pulled out the salt tin and laid a sloppy circle of salt around his brother, leaving enough room for him to squeeze inside as well.

Task completed, Sam crouched down and tilted Dean's head back hoping he had simply missed the shallow exhales of air. When it became obvious that was not the case, he placed trembling fingers gently on Dean's neck and felt the slow, sluggish beats of life before delivering two life-saving breaths. "Come on, come on," he urged quietly before repeating his actions. Time slowed and every second passed torturously slow. Two breaths, wait, two breaths, wait: the rhythm repeated and Sam grew increasingly concerned Dean's damaged air passageway could not recover.

"Don't you do this," Sam spat desperately. "I swear to God, Dean, this time I will be pissed if you do something stupid and leave." Two breaths, wait, two more breaths, wait: Sam thought of the implications of Dean dying, but the most important fact would be he had failed and his big brother would be sent to hell almost a full year early.

Two breaths, wait, two breaths, wait: in his best little brother voice Sam said, "I can't do this without you." _Yes, you can. _His words, but Dean's voice whispered in his mind. "Well, I don't want to," he said aloud.

Dean's eyes opened wide and he gasped, his back arching slightly off the ground. He looked around wildly before his green eyes settled on Sam and the panic receded into the depths of jade. "You okay?" he croaked.

"Am I okay?" Sam asked incredulously, sitting back on his heels. "Am I okay?" he repeated, his voice growing in volume. He slapped Dean lightly on the chest, who groaned in protest.

"Sam, calm down," Dean forced out in a gravely voice. He rested his hand weakly on Sam's knee and patted it once.

"Calm down?" Sam parroted.

Dean frowned and swallowed hard. He whispered something quietly that Sam could not hear and he leaned in closer. "What?" he asked.

"Gun." Dean winced and squirmed slightly.

"Dean, you don't need a gun right now," Sam replied, with a corresponding head shake.

"No, gun's in my back," Dean corrected softly.

Sam's hazel eyes registered understanding and he gently rolled Dean far enough to pull the gun out from under his lower back. Dean sighed in relief, but moments later flashed Sam a look of concern. Sam caught movement out of the corner of his eye and tightened his grip on the weapon with his right hand. His left hand rested lightly on Dean's chest, subconsciously monitoring the shallow up and down movement.

He looked up and nearly pulled the weapon to bear at the sight of Waldo standing right outside the circle of salt. Waldo cocked his head in confusion and spouted a question that Sam assumed was in Takelma. Sam shook his head in a universal gesture of non-understanding.

Waldo scowled, but spoke again – this time in clear, articulate English. "Why did you disturb the sacred symbols of this area?"

"To free you, your parents, the hold this land has on the dead," Sam replied. "These symbols did more than create a resting place for your family. They trapped spiritual signatures, forcing the final events of those buried here to reenact over and over, every night."

"There are no others here," Waldo replied, half confused, half accusation. He pulled his knife from the sheath at his waist and motioned to Sam with it. Dean started to move, but Sam pushed him back down easily with gentle pressure on his chest.

"No, they've all moved on, but spiritual residue remained, living out events that happened years ago," Sam explained patiently when all he really wanted to do was pick up the gun and fire an iron round into Waldo's heart however temporary that solution would prove to be. Normally he empathized with confused and lost spirits, but his compassion for Waldo ended when he tried to strangle his brother.

"I wish I could leave," Waldo lamented. "I do not know which path to follow."

Sam contemplated Waldo's statement. His father, William, had embraced other cultures, a rarity for the days in which he lived. It was that acceptance and the combination of ideas thereof that had inexplicably trapped his family here. The destruction of the symbols had released all it seemed except for Waldo. Waldo who no doubt had been torn between worlds while alive – remained conflicted in death – impossible to stay, unable to move on. Dragonflies popped into Sam's mind and he blurted, "Your parents followed the river."

Waldo stepped closer to Sam, replacing the knife in the sheath. "You saw them, didn't you?" he asked.

"Yes." Sam slowly slid the gun further away from Dean's body. If Waldo moved any closer, he would fire.

Waldo nodded and turned to look towards the river. "I should leave," he announced. His shape became blurred, thinning into a smoky white. "I should leave."

"Yes," Sam said, returning the head nod. "They're waiting."

As Waldo faded, Sam returned his attention to Dean. "Do you think you can help me move you closer to the fire?"

"I got it," Dean replied, his voice barely over a loud whisper. Dean shivered as the light breeze kissed his sunburned arms and face.

Sam moved to crouch behind Dean, grabbed his under the armpits and hauled him to his feet as he stood. "I got you," Sam contradicted. He frowned at the protective way Dean clutched his chest. "You did get hurt, didn't you?"

"I never said I didn't," Dean groaned. "I just said I didn't want to talk about it. Still don't."

Sam huffed, but brushed aside irritation at Dean's obstinacy. Confronting him on his behavior would not get him very far and Sam could not do anything for him right now anyway. They were stuck here until daylight. Fighting their way downhill in the dark would be an unnecessary risk. He deposited Dean by the fire and checked the clothes on the line only to find they were still sopping wet.

He sat down next to Dean, close enough that their shoulders touched. At least their boxers and t-shirts were dry. He toed off his wet shoes and peeled wet socks from his ghostly white, wrinkled feet and tossed them onto nearby rocks. The socks landed with spongy, wet sound and stuck to the rock. Leaning forward, he helped Dean out of his shoe, the boot and wet socks. Two more spongy sounds on the rocks signaled success and he leaned in closer to a shivering Dean. "It'll be daylight in two hours," he remarked to break the silence. "We can get out of here and head back to the clinic then."

Dean turned to frown at Sam. "I don't need to go back there," he protested, through shivering teeth.

"Dean, you stopped breathing. I know in our lives that's considered an inconvenience not a show stopper, but I'd feel better if you were checked out by a doctor," Sam replied. He kept his tone carefully neutral; Dean tended to tread dangerously close to reckless most of the time, but when it came to his own safety the line seemed non-existent.

Dean's head snapped and he wore an expression of genuine surprise. "If it makes you feel better," he replied in a stage whisper.

"It does," Sam said, relieved the battle would not need fighting.

They sat in silence for several long minutes, watching the fire crackle, accompanied by a chorus of crickets and harmonized occasionally by a lone owl. "I stopped breathing?" Dean asked, finally. He sounded almost resigned to the idea and that fact alone terrified Sam.

"Yeah," Sam replied, not tearing his gaze from the fire. "You scared the shit out of me, Dean."

They sat in silence once more, each brother lost in the implications of that statement. Sam tapped his foot, refusing to look at his brother. Dean would no doubt make light of it and brush it off and Sam was in no mood to pretend it didn't matter. "Well, it's all over now. The spirits are gone and everything's okay," Dean stated finally.

"Dean, you weren't breathing. I was afraid you were going to die. Do you have any idea what that feels like?" Sam asked angrily, annoyed Dean was dismissing the seriousness of what had transpired. As soon as the ill-spoken words were out of his mouth, he wished he could pull them back.

An unreadable expression crossed Dean's face and Sam prepared himself for the onslaught. Dean would either flippantly change the subject as if nothing had been said or explode in a tirade of anger. What Sam did not expect was for Dean to drop his gaze to stare at his bare feet and speak quietly in a cracking voice.

"When you died," Dean began. Sam hiccupped in surprise, questioning why he had felt the need to press Dean on this issue. They never mentioned the death word. In an unspoken agreement between them, they occasionally alluded to it, but never spoke of it outright. Dean continued unabated, "I held you in my arms knowing there was nothing I could do. I pulled you close, willing death away, but it didn't help. You drew your last breath and I couldn't stop it."

Dean paused and looked at his hands, examining them closely. "I failed, Sammy. Practically all my life, I've tried to do whatever it takes to keep my family safe and I failed." Dean's abused throat caused his quavering voice to crack. "You're my little brother, my responsibility, so don't ask me if I understand. I understand."

Sam nodded, swallowing the lump of emotion lodged in his throat. "That goes both ways. You're my brother," he stated huskily, repeating the sentiment he'd voiced only a few weeks ago. "I'll do whatever it takes to get you out of this."

"Don't say that," Dean snapped angrily. "I don't want you doing anything stupid."

"With you as an example, I'm pretty much doomed there," Sam quipped with attempted levity. In a strange, reversal of roles he needed to break the emotional tension and move on. His shoulders sagged tiredly and he felt the strain of responsibility for his brother. A burden he was sure Dean understood full well.

Dean scowled, his brow furrowed in frustration before his lips finally softened into a lopsided smirking grin. "I suppose you got me there," he conceded finally. He squinted into the distance. "Sun's coming up."

"It's about time," Sam replied, stifling a yawn. "I think I've figured out a way across the river."

"Ah man, I'd forgotten about the river," Dean moaned. "No more swimming, okay."

"No swimming," Sam reassured him, tossing Dean his damp socks. "Mike sent us the most direct route, but if we walk downhill on this side, we should be able to find a place to cross further downstream, but close to the Impala."

"Sounds like a plan," Dean agreed, slipping on his socks and one shoe before fighting with the heavy boot.

"We're only about two miles from the car, so it shouldn't take more than an hour or two," Sam stated, adding time for Dean's unspoken injuries. "The jeans are still soaked, so we're probably better off without them."

"Good thing no one lives out here," Dean smirked. "Or you'd be showing off those pale chicken legs to all the locals."

"Sh'yeah, unlike yours," Sam shot back, pointing to Dean's legs with a head nod.

"What?" Dean asked innocently, his arms spread wide, looking down at his own legs. The black, soft cast stood out in stark contract against his pale leg. "Not everyone could pull this look off, the way I can."

Sam snorted and shoved the wet clothes into the duffel. Throwing dry dirt on the dying fire, he quickly smothered the flames leaving only tendrils of gray-black smoke wafting through the air. He shouldered the duffel and helped Dean stand with the other arm. He waited patiently while Dean gained his equilibrium and silently indicated his readiness to begin. With slow, measured steps the brothers walked downhill through the thickly wooded forest.

Unseen by either brother, a large, rusty-orange dragonfly zipped through the air following the path of the river west towards the ocean.

They rested several times before reaching a point downstream where the water ran shallow enough that it afforded them stepping stones the entire way across the river. Negotiating the stones with the awkward boot proved difficult, but not impossible. Dean wobbled several times, but each time, Sam was close enough to steady him.

The final thirty minutes were spent fighting underbrush and thorny blackberry bushes. Tired, scratched and slightly the worse for wear the brothers emerged from the woods to the sight of the Impala in the distance. Dean hobbled slowly and Sam watched him surreptitiously for signs that he could not continue. It had taken longer than the two hours Sam had estimated, but they finally reached the waiting car.

"Ah, baby," Dean crooned. "You are a sight for sore eyes." He ran his hand affectionately down the roof of the Impala.

Sam snickered and opened the passenger door for Dean. As his brother slipped inside Sam remarked, "Why do I always feel like I'm interrupting a private moment between the two of you?"

He closed the door on Dean's laughing reply, slowly walked around the back side of the Impala and climbed into the driver's seat. "Next stop, Doctor Bailey's," he announced upon starting the engine.

Dean stopped chuckling and glared at Sam, causing the younger brother to chuckle instead. Dust kicked up on the abandoned logging road as the sleek, black car winded down the hill towards town.

…………………………………………..……………..**Supernatural**……………….………………………………………

AN: Whoa, we're almost there. One more chapter to go and that's all she wrote.

I think my writing mojo has returned (it was temporarily on hiatus after all my traveling/company this summer), but I managed two chapters and a one-shot this week. Woo hoo!

As always – Feedback Welcome!


	11. Chapter 11

**Where's Waldo?**

**Disclaimer: **Everything Winchester, Supernatural and Impala related belong to someone else. I'm just doing this for fun.

**Beta'd: **By Wysawyg who graciously gives her time and talent to offer suggestions and proof-read my stories, taking time away from her own. Thank you!

I played quite a lot after she beta'd so as usual any remaining errors are mine and mine alone.

**Thank You: **Thanks for your help, Heather, and I promise sometime in the future there'll be a free of charge Dean story for you. (c: And to Carocali for being helpful and supportive - It means a lot!

………………………………..……………………………**Chapter 11**…………………………………………………………

"_Ah, baby," Dean crooned. "You are a sight for sore eyes." He ran his hand affectionately down the roof of the Impala. _

_Sam snickered and opened the passenger door for Dean. As his brother slipped inside Sam remarked, "Why do I always feel like I'm interrupting a private moment between the two of you?"_

_He closed the door on Dean's laughing reply, slowly walked around the back side of the Impala and climbed into the driver's seat. "Next stop, Doctor Bailey's," he announced upon starting the engine._

_Dean stopped chuckling and glared at Sam, causing the younger brother to chuckle instead. Dust kicked up on the abandoned logging road as the sleek, black car winded down the hill towards town._

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dr. Bailey pushed back his horn-rimmed glasses, searching the cupboard for the spare bottle he knew he'd put here last spring. The contents looked a bit cloudy and he gave it a hard shake to see if the fluid would remix. Squinting through bifocals he read the freshness date and realized it expired nearly eight months ago, but he assumed it would provide relief nonetheless.

He sighed as he thought about his patients in the next room. They had returned early yesterday morning, both bedraggled with Dean leaning heavily on Sam. He had properly chastised the pair and, after allowing brothers to clean up, he had promptly placed Dean back on oxygen, much to Dean's dismay.

It had taken nearly a half an hour to coax the story out of the brothers and even then, he did not believe he had the whole truth. Falling into the river? That, he believed. The bruises were consistent with an unplanned water excursion and he doubted they would have shown up on his doorstep in their skivvies if not for lack of dry clothes.

Dean being strangled by a rope from the bridge in the river? That, he did not believe. The bruising pattern was consistent with fingers, not a rope. He did not think for an instant Sam had attacked his brother which meant they were hiding something.

He had evaluated Dean's condition all the while under the watchful eye of his brother. Dean's kidneys had survived the river trip, but his ribs had not faired quite as well. With Sam's nodding approval, he had administered a strong pain killer. Dean had fallen asleep almost immediately, only staying conscious long enough for a rumbling growl to be directed towards his brother.

_Don't mind him, _Sam had said. Doctor Bailey remembered he had smiled reassuringly at Sam, but the truth was, he had not really known what to make of the brothers. They seemed very close and yet there was something guarded about both of them. It had taken him well into the next day to discover the reason for the façade was him.

Every two hours he had gone in to check on his patients only to find Sam blinking awake at the squeaking of the door, sitting next to his brother, with his hand resting on Dean's chest. Doctor Bailey had threatened Sam with banishment from the room and he remembered full well the expression on the younger man's face.

It had not been threatening or angry, but the message had been all too clear. Sam was not leaving his brother and nothing the doctor said would change that. He had not tried to lecture Sam about sleep after that, but contented himself on the pockets of sleep his second patient was getting. It had been on his most recent trip into the overnight room that he had discovered Sam had needed his attention as well.

Dr. Bailey sat down on the rolling chair in the exam room and yawned. Exhaustion had settled into his bones from the late night hours: a symptom of his growing age. He had not had this much excitement since Carl Jenkins had chopped his toe off last Christmas splitting wood for the family bonfire.

He yawned again and pushed himself up slowly to a standing position. He knew he would not be able to convince the brothers to stay here much longer. Already they were showing signs of cabin fever. Doctor Bailey reached the door to the overnight room and he could hear annoyed hisses through the door. Hoping to learn more of the truth by stealth, he pressed his ear to the door.

"Dean, stop that," Sam hissed. "It's disgusting."

"So are you," Dean retorted.

"That doesn't even make sense," Sam complained.

"Neither do you," Dean replied.

Dr. Bailey heard a banging thud and Sam's voice grow in volume. "God you are impossible when you've been cooped up too long. We need to get out of here soon before I'm forced to do something I'll regret."

Deciding it was safer to enter now, rather than after Dean had indeed pushed Sam too far, he knocked briskly once and entered. The sight that greeted him brought a chuckle to his lips, quickly squelched by the reproachful look on Sam's face.

Dean was sitting on the bed, propped up against a pillowed headboard, slowly peeling a sheet of translucent, necrotic skin from his arm. Doctor Bailey noticed a few pieces of skin on the floor next to Sam where they had apparently been thrown by one of the two brothers. Dean had stopped midway through the pull when Doctor Bailey had opened the door, but continued on the longer the doctor stood in the doorway. The long section of skin broke loose and Dean leaned over and placed it carefully on Sam's leg while Sam was distracted by the doctor.

Doctor Bailey glanced from one patient, pink from the chest up, to the other, pink mid-thigh down. He had a sudden, overwhelming attack of sympathy for these boys' parents. If they could get themselves into this much trouble now, they must have been a handful as children.

"I found more Calamine lotion," Dr. Bailey announced, handing the bottle to Sam.

"Thanks," Sam replied, giving the bottle a shake.

Doctor Bailey gave Sam an appraising look. "You really did manage to get a nasty case of poison oak," he commented.

"Yeah," Sam replied, scratching a spot on his knee absent-mindedly. His fingers found the sheet of discarded skin, gingerly picked it off and tossed it to the floor. Scowling at Dean, Sam leaned in closer to Doctor Bailey and whispered conspiratorially, "How is he really?"

"He has really good hearing," Dean sniped. He tugged on the nasal canula and frowned. "Is this really necessary?"

"Yes," Sam and Doctor Bailey replied simultaneously.

Dean sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. "So? What's the verdict, Doc?"

Doctor Bailey looked from one brother to the other. "I'm cutting you loose."

"Really?" Dean asked the surprise evident on his face. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Doctor Bailey replied. He pushed his thick, black-framed glasses further up his nose. At the elated look on one brother's face and the look of trepidation on the other, he continued, "It isn't that I believe you are ready to leave, but I'm ready for you to leave. You're acting like a pair of poorly housebroken pups, circling the carpet to soil it when what you really need to do is go outside."

"I'm sorry, we didn't mean to cause trouble," Sam apologized, his hazel eyes conveying his sincerity. He pointed a pink coated finger at the door. "We can be ready to leave in ten minutes."

Doctor Bailey frowned. Obviously, these boys had seen their fair share of hard knocks to be so quick to leave needed medical care to avoid trouble. "I think you misunderstand me," Doctor Bailey explained. "It's readily apparent you won't stay much longer. I'm simply giving you permission to leave so you don't have to sneak out in the middle of the night."

The sheepish blush on Sam's face and the smirk on Dean's told him his statement rang true. "Uh, thanks," Sam replied finally.

"Not a problem," Doctor Bailey replied with a nod. "I'll get you," he said pointing at Dean. "Some sample painkillers and a final dose of the good stuff. And you," he continued, pointing this time at Sam, "can take that bottle of Calamine with you."

The brothers nodded and Doctor Bailey turned on his heel and left to fetch the promised painkillers. Behind him, he heard the light bickering start once more before he shut the door to silence it.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Sam shut the passenger door for his brother and turned to wave good-bye to Doctor Bailey before walking around the car to the driver's side. He slipped inside, started the car and drove away from the clinic.

The orange sun hung low in the sky, hovering barely over the tops of the surrounding tree-lined mountains. The Impala windows were down on both sides and the cooling dusk breeze whipped through the car.

Dean leaned forward, reaching for the radio and grunted in pain, wrapping his right arm around his torso. Sam slapped his hand away from the dials. "Driver picks the music. Shot gun shuts his cake hole," he said with a grin.

"Sam," Dean growled his name in warning.

"Your rules, Dean," Sam stated. His eyes flicked to his brother before returning to the road and his grin grew until dimples appeared.

"Fine time you picked to start listening to me," Dean grumbled under his breath. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the seat.

"I listen all the time," Sam protested lightly. Dean glanced at him with disbelieving eyes and Sam shook his head at his grumpy brother. After a few minutes Sam spoke again, breaking the easy silence, "I think we should stay in Portland tonight."

"Planning on spending another five hours at Powell's?" Dean asked, rolling his window up to mid-way and shivering once.

"No," Sam protested. _An hour maybe, _he thought. "It's a good stopping point. There are several directions to head from there." Portland would be a good stopping point so Dean could rest without overdoing it the first day. Sam knew first hand how uncomfortable sitting in the car for hours with busted ribs could be.

"Sounds good," Dean replied. He looked out the window at the scenery as the road meandered through pasture land following the course of the deceptively calm river. "Are you sure the spirits moved on?" he asked in an abrupt change of topic.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Sam replied. "I saw the dragonflies following the river. They moved on."

"Dragonflies?" Dean asked, furrowing his brow and turning towards Sam.

"Dragonflies were an animal totem that some Native American cultures viewed as spirits on flight to the afterlife," Sam explained, tapping the breaks lightly to avoid hitting a jack rabbit bounding across the highway.

Dean's lips lifted into a lopsided grin. "You're a great sidekick, Geek boy," he stated, turning back towards the window.

"Sidekick?" Sam asked. "The comic relief guy is the sidekick. That definitely describes you, not me," Sam joked, hoping the easy banter would infuse normalcy back into their lives.

"Well, it's true you don't have a sense of humor," Dean replied. "But the role of hero is always played by the best looking guy and that's me."

"I don't think you meet the height requirements," Sam shot back. "Shorty."

"I'm six-one," Dean argued.

"Yeah, you're short," Sam agreed with a grin.

"Whatever."

Sam chalked up a win and the brothers fell into a comfortable silence. It stretched and lengthened until Sam noticed Dean appeared to be lost in thought. The melancholy expression his brother wore in direct contrast with his normal devil-may-care countenance.

"Hey Dean?" Sam asked, not taking his eyes from the road.

"Yeah?" Dean asked. He sounded tired and his speech slurred a bit from the medication as it finally kicked in.

"You're going to be okay," Sam stated, tearing his gaze from the twisting highway to his brother. "We both are." He turned back to the road and continued with a change of subject hoping to steer Dean back into calmer waters, "I did a little research before we left and there's possible demon activity in Mott, North Dakota." A good hunt always seemed to cheer his brother up.

When Dean did respond, Sam shot him a quick glance thinking his brother had finally succumbed to sleep. But Dean was not sleeping; he sat slouched in the passenger seat, arms wrapped around his torso, gaze averted.

"Dean," Sam interrupted. "Look, I think you're looking for something I can't give you. The truth is I won't be okay unless you are. So, you have to promise me something." Sam paused until Dean nodded. "You have to promise you're going to take care of yourself. Give me this year to figure things out."

Dean huffed lightly. "You've always been pushy," he muttered. "And such a girl," he finished with a smirk, elbowing Sam in the ribs.

Sam rolled his eyes, but he couldn't stop a grin from escaping. "Get some sleep," he said.

"When're we stopping for dinner?" Dean asked, ignoring Sam's command. "I'm starving."

"We should be in civilization within a couple of hours," Sam stated.

"A couple of hours?" Dean complained. "Just pull over and let me drive."

"Nope," Sam disagreed, flipping on the radio. He cruised through the stations quickly, but all he found was soft rock. It was better than nothing. "You're not driving."

Celine Dion's sultry tones filtered through the Impala's speakers. "Ah, hell no," Dean remarked, reaching for the dial again.

Sam slapped his hand away again. "And we've been over that already." Sam suppressed a grin, inwardly amused by Dean's displeasure over the lack of acceptable musical choices. He toyed with the idea of putting them both out of their misery by pulling out the box of cassettes under the passenger seat, but he decided distracting Dean from his current frame of mind was worth the price of Celine.

Dean folded his arms across his chest. "Whatever, Sam. I changed my mind. Wake me up when we stop for dinner." With that proclamation, he leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. Within minutes, his arms dropped from the protective position around his ribs to his sides as he fell asleep along the winding highway.

Sam turned down the soft music allowing it to play quietly in the background. The wind still whistled through Dean's partially open window and the tires hummed on the asphalt, creating the perfect environment for Dean to sleep. Sam thought to the year ahead and while it promised the danger of demon hunts, the road he and Dean traveled - they traveled together.

Fin

…………………………………………………………..**Supernatural**…………………………………………………………

AN: Yes, I wrote another fic that is set in my home state. But really, when you live out West there's no shortage of haunted places to explore. Waldo is real. It was founded in 1854 by William Waldo. In the 1890's there were 30,000 people in Waldo. Not only did the railways bypass poor Waldo, but the two major highways of the time did as well (and still do for that matter). It went from thriving metropolis, to small town, to a general store/post office, to what it is today…two graveyards in the middle of nowhere…literally.

Thanks to all who have been reading! It was a fun ride!

**The Story Behind the Story**

If you should find yourself in Southern Oregon with a hankering to visit the ghost town of Waldo, here's my advice. Drive to Cave Junction and find a local who knows:

a). What you are talking about and…

b). Where Waldo was located.

Because speaking from personal experience, the on-line directions bite rocks.

I had an idea of what I wanted to write, but I wanted to go out to Waldo to see the area first-hand, sort of pick up on the atmosphere and look around the old town site. When I told my husband where I wanted to go and why he said, "Sounds like a blast, let's all go."

So, charcoal sticks and paper in hand, we loaded into my husband's soccer mom mini-van and headed to Waldo. An hour and a half later, we pulled off the main highway onto Waldo Road. According to our directions, the town had stood three miles down the road. The directions did not say whether it was on the right or the left side, but I expected a wide open area with a visible cemetery. I was wrong.

At mile marker three, there was an old stone marker on the left at the bottom of a hill with the plaque missing. There obviously had never had a road up the hill, so we assumed that was not the correct place. We drove a little further and when we reached mile marker four we turned around and went back.

When we reached the stone marker again, there was a small truck parked there and an elderly couple was picking their way up the hill. Deciding we had been mistaken about Waldo's location, we followed.

The non-existent trail took us through swee'pea, manzanita bushes (I got my hair stuck as we crawled THROUGH one bush) and ferns. When we reached the top of the hill, the couple was coming back up from a lower spot on the hill.

My son asked, "Is this Waldo?"

"Waldo?" Jean (name changed) asked. "No, sweetie, that's on the other side of the road."

We thanked the couple and turned to leave when Bill (name changed) said, "You'll never find it if you've never been there before."

"Can you give us directions?" I asked.

"Nah, it's a little complicated. We'll just show you the way," Bill replied.

My husband thanked Bill and Jean and then we headed down the hill. Jean left us in the dust (we found out later she is 72. Ouch). I stayed behind with Bill (affectionately dubbed, 'Pokey' by his wife) and talked about Waldo.

He told me the Protestant cemetery was on this side of the hill, the Catholic on the other side and the Chinese cemetery in the middle. He also informed me the Chinese cemetery no longer existed. By request of the Chinese government, the bodies had been exhumed, the tombstones removed and the entire lot sent back to China in the early 1900's. All that remained were mounds of dirt.

We all piled into our respective vehicles and Jean and Bill led the way. We turned off onto a gravel, pot-holed road and it became evident very quickly that my husband's van could go no further. Bill suggested we climb into the back of their rig, so we did and drove another mile down the bumpy road.

We parked at the foot of a steep, rutted dirt road and started walking. Once again Jean shot out ahead, my husband and son trying vainly to keep up and I talked to Bill. Part way up the hill he stopped, turned to me and said, "You know, we're just teasing you. There's no cemetery up this hill…yet."

We emerged at the top of the hill amidst old-growth pine and cedar trees. Nestled in the shade of these sleeping giants were gray stone markers at the head of sunken graves. There was a children's section, a few family plots and many, many unmarked graves where time and weather had worn away all signs minus the sunken ground.

I took a few rubbings, wrote down some thoughts and grave names/dates before we headed back down the hill. Jean and Bill were going to show us the way to the Catholic cemetery. After walking down the hill, loading back into their truck, then back into our van, we drove all the way around the hill to the other side.

We pulled into a grassy flat area clearly marked by signs that read: "Private Property. Keep Out." What you need to understand is in rural Oregon that is a sign to be taken seriously. People come out, rifles in hand, when you trespass. And…Cave Junction is replete with naturalistic, free-spirits some of whom grow their own crops of happy grass.

Bill and Jean assured us it would be okay and if one of the property owners approached us, we would just tell them we were on the way to the cemetery and they'd let us pass. With that joyous thought in mind we proceeded to trudge two miles into the woods. We walked through a dry mining creek, past an odd stone shrine with wind-chimes, dream catchers and statues and over the Illinois River on a foot suspension bridge (metal, not rope).

My son, knowing how much I hate heights, waited until I was mid-point on the swaying bridge and then jumped up and down several times on it, causing it to rock ferociously. "Keep that up and you'll be swimming," I hissed. He laughed, but he did stop (lucky for him).

The Catholic cemetery is maintained better so the graves were not sunken, but only two headstones remained. The rest were marked by generic white crosses and the entire graveyard was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. If you search the tall grass carefully, you can find stained glass pieces of windows from the old church.

The feeling was surreal, being out in the middle of nowhere and knowing you were standing where a bustling town once stood. Incidentally, I never could tell where the actual town of Waldo stood. Wherever it was, Mother Nature had reclaimed the land, but it got my twisted mind to thinking and that's how this story was born. A far cry from my original thought, 'Dean falls in a well.' LOL.

It also helped feed Heather's requests for her graduation story: Hurt!Dean, a hug or a snuggle, angst (my dreaded foe) and if I could figure out how to get them wet or CPR then that would be great. So, there you have it - the story behind the story.

Oh and my husband totally scored. He convinced me this proved we needed a four wheel drive vehicle so now he has a 4X4, Ford 150 truck to accompany his soccer mom van. (c:

Thanks again for reading!


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